Thin Blue Line
by Lady Patriot
Summary: A seemingly simple mugging gone bad turns out to have deeper consequences for the officers of the 55th Precinct.
1. Predawn Walk

This is my first "Third Watch" fic. My other work can be found in the JAG section. Hope you like this one.

This chapter will be short. Just a teaser. More will come, I promise!

* * *

Early morning darkness surrounded the lone man walking along the deserted sidewalk. The steady drizzle that had persisted all through the night had saturated his light jacket, which hung from his shoulders, long since failing to keep the moisture away. His hands were stuffed as far as they would go into the pockets of his jeans and his shoulders were slumped, as though the jacket he wore was a leaden cape. His close-cropped dark hair effectively repelled the rain, sending it trickling down the sides of his head and face. There was an air of wearied defeat about him, and he walked along without paying any attention to where he was going.

Two young kids lurking in the shadow of a nearby alley watched the man pass by. They exchanged glances, and the larger of the two nodded. The pair got to their feet, leaving behind the small paper bag that had been resting between them, and followed the man silently. He never noticed that he had picked up two shadows. Grinning cockily, the larger boy increased his stride to grab the back of the man's jacket.

'Hey, man.' The kid said, giving the man a sneer. 'Lovely morning for a stroll, huh? Give us your wallet.'

The man stared at his assailant with lifeless eyes. 'I don't have one.'

'C'mon, man, everyone's got a wallet. Search him.'

As the other kid obeyed, his larger companion glared at the man. 'Don't you know this ain't a place you wanna be?'

'Does it matter?'

The kid sneered. 'Man, you gotta be jokin'. Round here, you ain't a chance, man. Walkin' alone, man, that ain't smart. Gets ya killed.'

'He ain't got nothin'.'

'What? C'mon, man, you gotta have some cash somewhere.'

'I don't have any.'

'Man, you're wastin' my time. Where's your cash?'

'I don't have any.' The man repeated.

'Don't be lyin' to me, man. I ain't got much patience.'

'I'm not lying.'

The larger kid threw the man back against the foundation of the nearest building and pulled out a knife from his jacket. 'Man, I warned you. Ain't nobody lies to me.' He stabbed forward, aiming at the man's chest.

With startling speed, the man dodged the strike and grabbed his assailant's wrist and twisted it until the knife fell to the ground. With his free hand, he dealt the kid a sharp blow to the side of his face before tossing the kid down to the sidewalk.

'What the hell, man?'

'Didn't think I'd fight back, huh?' The man said. 'Picked the wrong guy to mug.'

'Get him!' The larger kid cried, lurching to his feet. His companion lunged forward, only to meet the man's fist head on. He fell as the larger kid came forward. The man ducked the first swing and landed one of his own, knocking his opponent back a step. As he moved in for a follow-up, the other kid picked up the discarded knife. The man never saw the attack coming.

With a pained, startled gasp, he froze, his eyes registering his disbelief. His mouth hung open in a silent cry of agony as he slowly dropped to his knees. Both kids stared at the body, the knife protruding from his back. Blood was staining the jacket around the blade, a steadily growing patch of crimson against the light blue fabric.

'What are you standin' there for? We gotta move him!'

'I, I stabbed him… is he dead?'

'Who cares, man? We gotta get him out of sight. Someone will see him!'

The smaller kid shook himself and bent to the task of dragging the body into the alley, his eyes never leaving the sight of the knife in the man's back. His companion tugged urgently at his arm, eager to get away from the scene.

'C'mon, man, we gotta get outta here. Before the cops come.'

'What if – '

'Who cares? Let's go!'

The pair ran off down the street, never looking back in the direction of the alley. Neither one had the courage.


	2. Man Without A Name

Well, it's not who you think it is.

Or is it?

Sorry if this reads a little OOC. I'm not as well-acquainted with the characters as I would like to be to do them justice.

* * *

'Glad you took the time to join us, Boscorelli.'

Bosco said nothing as he walked quickly to his customary seat at the back of the room. The other officers were so used to his tardiness that they ignored him. Sergeant Christopher glared at Bosco's back for a few moments, then cleared his throat and continued.

'Nothing terribly special happening tonight. The roads are a bit slick though. Drive carefully and watch yourselves. I wouldn't be surprised if there are some accidents tonight. Dismissed.'

Bosco groaned as the room stirred to life. He usually wasn't this late to roll call. He stood up and stretched. 'He's got it in for me, I swear.'

'If you weren't late so many times, there wouldn't be a problem.' His partner told him, tired of this same conversation. They had it every time the sergeant said anything to Bosco, whether it was a rebuke or not.

'Come on. Let's get out of here.' Bosco said grumpily, striding toward the door. It was already turning out to be a bad day.

* * *

'Why do we always get stuck with the small stuff?'

Faith shined her flashlight up the dimly lit staircase, making sure there was nothing on the steps that would get in the way. 'Somebody's got to do it, Bosco.'

'But why does it have to be us?' Bosco muttered, glancing around impatiently. 'There's nothing here. Let's get out of here.'

'Hello?' His partner ignored him and trotted up the narrow staircase. 'Is anyone here?'

Bosco rolled his eyes as he followed her. 'Why is it that every time I don't want to be here all the low-lives call us?'

'It's the job, Bosco.' Faith looked around before knocking firmly on the nearest door. 'Hello?'

No one answered her knock. She waited several seconds before knocking again. 'Hello?'

Again, no response. Bosco gave her an "I-told-you-so" look as he turned back toward the stairs. His partner sighed and reached up to the mic clipped her jacket. '55 David to Central.'

'Go ahead, 55 David.'

'No response to our knock. Nobody appears to be home. Be clear this location.'

'Ten-four, show you clear 1523.' The dispatcher replied.

'Man, it's not even three-thirty yet?' Bosco complained from downstairs.

'Can't you give it a rest? I'm already getting a headache.'

'Sooner we get out of here, sooner we can get some coffee.'

Faith suppressed an irritated sigh and followed her partner out into the rain. He was already in the cruiser, drumming his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. Determined to keep silent, she climbed into the passenger's seat and buckled herself in. Without a word, Bosco started the engine, glancing over his shoulder quickly to check traffic as he swung the cruiser away from the curb. He was itching to say something, uncomfortable with the silence.

'You catch the game last night?'

'What game?' His partner asked, reluctant to broach any topic as it was sure to quickly become one-sided.

'The Knicks. They creamed those Boston weenies.' Bosco told her, grinning. 'Man, that was a game.'

'Uh-huh.' Faith stared out the window and let him ramble on. She didn't like sports all that much, and this was part of the reason why. Out on the sidewalk was the usual bustle of people going about their business despite the rain. Nothing special happening, as Sergeant Christopher had said. She sighed inwardly and watched a pair of kids saunter along, their jackets unzipped and their pants hanging low around their hips. One of them wore his baseball cap on sideways, the flat brim protecting his ear from the rain instead of his face. The "gangsta" look that was all the rage amongst teenage males. She scanned the crowd with an experienced eye, picking out several known minor drug dealers. Luckily for them, they were only standing around looking irritated at the bad weather. Bosco was still talking, occasionally gesturing to emphasise his words. At least the coffee shop wasn't too far away. Faith glanced at an alley as the cruiser passed it, half-wondering if there was anybody there seeking the shelter of the surrounding buildings.

'Bosco, stop.'

'What?' He looked over at her in surprise. 'I was getting to the best part.'

'No, stop the car. I think I saw something.'

'You always see "something".' Bosco grumbled, but pulled over to the curb anyway. His partner grabbed her hat as she unfolded herself from the passenger's seat. 'What's so important that you're going to get soaked for?'

She glanced back at him. 'If you don't want to get wet, stay in the car.' She turned away and headed toward the alley. Behind her, she heard Bosco get out of the cruiser. He always followed her. She pulled her flashlight from its carrier on her belt and shined the light into the gloom of the alley.

'Bosco!'

'What?' He demanded. Faith had already moved out of sight into the alley. When he came around the corner, he saw her kneeling beside a body. She looked up at the sound of his approach, her face a little whiter than usual.

'We need a bus.'

* * *

Bosco stood back as the EMS crew came into the alley with their heavy bags over their shoulders, a grim expression on his face. The guy had clearly been dead for awhile, but the paramedics needed to confirm for the reports. Faith was leaning against the wall several feet away, silently watching Doc and Carlos work.

'He's dead.' Carlos said, rocking back on his heels, and Bosco snorted.

'Any idiot can see _that_. Thanks for enlightening us, Professor.'

Carlos scowled at the officer, but stood up and dusted off his trousers. 'What's with the attitude, Bosco? Somebody wake you up too early?'

'Enough, Carlos,' Doc said, already on his feet. 'Not much we can do for this one. We'll wait around until the detectives get here.'

'They're on their way.' Faith said. 'I'll go get the tape.'

'How long's he been here?'

Doc looked down at the body. 'Hard to say. Six hours at least.' He shrugged. 'Probably another gang-fight.'

'Oh great. That means revenge.' Bosco grumbled.

'Any ID on him?'

'Nothing. It was probably stolen.' Doc replied.

'What's your name, punk? Huh? You got a story worth tellin'?'

'Knock it off, Bos.' Faith returned with the crime scene tape. 'Back to the street, guys. Got to tape this area off.'

The three men filed back to the street whilst she sealed off the alley. Doc and Carlos retreated to the shelter of their bus, leaving the two officers standing out in the rain. Bosco frowned as he stood against the brick wall of the nearest building. It figured that they'd catch a dead body at the start of the shift. He plucked at the damp fabric of his jacket and sighed. Waiting for the detectives to show up was his least favourite thing in the world. They were always late.

'What are you starin' at?' He growled at somebody passing by. Embarrassed, the man quickened his pace.

'That's great, Bos. Way to endear yourself to the public.'

'He should keep his eyes on where he's goin'.'

'Maybe he's just curious.'

'Right. We should put up a sign, then. "There's a dead guy back there. Wanna take a look?" '

To his surprise, Faith chuckled. He looked at her in confusion.

'What's so funny?'

'You are. You're so obnoxious sometimes.'

'Me, obnoxious? Since when?'

'Since always.' His partner became serious again. 'What do you think happened to that guy?'

Bosco shrugged indifferently. 'Probably wouldn't give up his wallet. Happens all the time. Guy resists, he gets stabbed or shot, and we get to clean up the mess afterward.'

'That's so you. Always blaming the victims.'

'I don't – '

'The detectives are here.' Faith interrupted, walking toward the car that pulled up.

'What have you got?' One of them asked.

'White male lying with a knife in his back, age and name unknown. He's DOA.'

The detective sighed wearily. 'Another one. We'll take it from here, Officer.'

'It's all yours.' Faith told them, glad to that she and her partner could be on their way.


	3. John Doe Has A Name

More suspense anyone? 

Forgot to throw a disclaimer. Nobody but those characters I create are mine.

A/N: I only get a chance to write usually late at night, after _Third Watch_. The chapters will be short until semester ends. I don't usually start writing a chapter until midnight most nights. I crave your indulgence for the necessary brevity of the next few chapters.

Also, some parts of the cruiser description and their "slang" comes from my experience with a local department that I had the privilege of riding along with on several occasions. It may not be NYPD-accurate, but I've seen it used by other departments.

* * *

Faith blew some of the steam away from the paper cup in her hand and took a sip of the wonderfully hot coffee. In the driver's seat, Bosco stared out the window at the passing traffic. For a day with such bad weather, there hadn't been an accident call yet. Maybe people were being careful for once. It would be a change.

'Any idea who our DOA is?'

'I really don't care. He's just another dead guy.'

'You don't even have a guess? He might be somebody you know.'

Bosco made a face. 'If somebody I know is dumb enough to be walking alone through that part of the neighbourhood, they deserve to get knocked around a little.'

'Come on, Bosco. He was more than "knocked around a little." The man had a knife in his back.'

'So he got jumped. I don't even know why we're talking about this. What difference does it make? A skel's a skel, dead or not.'

'So you don't care that an innocent guy was killed?'

'Look, if he's stupid enough to be wandering around the streets at night, I don't really give a damn what happens to him. Most people know better.'

Faith rolled her eyes. '_Most_ people would have some sort of sympathy for a guy who gets a knife in the back.'

'Yeah, well, I'm not most people.'

'No, you're better than most people.'

'What?' Bosco shifted in his seat to look at her. 'There's one big difference between me and the rest of the world. This shiny piece of work right here. It means "most people" are naturally beneath me.'

'That's not what being a cop is about, Bos, and you know it.'

'Yeah, but so what? I get so sick of punks thinking they've got the upper hand on me, even when they get tossed into lockup.'

'People are more than just something for you to arrest, Bos.'

Bosco sipped his coffee. 'Right.'

The cruiser cell phone rang, saving Faith the effort of replying. Bosco grabbed the phone its mount on the dashboard and snapped, 'Five-five David.' He listened for a moment, then his face went white. 'Are you sure?'

'Bosco?'

'Yeah, thanks. I'll be right there.' He replaced the phone with far more care than he had picked it up with. 'Dammit.' He muttered softly, staring at the keypad on the phone.

'Bosco?'

'That was Swersky. He wants me to come down and ID the stiff.'

'Are you going to?'

Her partner turned the key and sat back for a moment, listening to the engine. 'Yeah. Might as well.'

'Did he say who they thought the guy was?'

'No.' Bosco replied curtly, keeping his attention focussed pointedly on the road.

'Bosco.'

'Can we not talk about it?'

Faith silently relented, glancing down at the coffee cup in her hand. She didn't feel thirsty anymore.

* * *

The silence in the viewing room was enough to make her ears hurt. Bosco stared at the glass as the medical examiner appeared in the other room. He tensed up as the sheet covering the body was pulled back, and Faith put a hand on his shoulder. Lieutenant Swersky stood by the door, arms folded, a grim, expectant expression on his face.

Bosco stared at the face on the cold steel table in the other room, giving no indication about how he was feeling or what he was thinking. With a voice that was steadier than he felt inside, he said, 'That's him.'

'That's who?'

A muscle in his cheek twitched. 'That's one of Mikey's old pals. Keith Staples.' He turned to look at Swersky. 'Where's Mikey?'

'We don't know. Haven't heard from him since he got out.'

'I need to find him.'

'Bosco, wait, you don't think this has anything to do with your brother, do you?'

Bosco paused for half a second in the corridor outside the viewing room. 'You're damn right I do. Mikey's known that guy in there for years. Drug pals, the two of them. If Staples is down and out, how long do you think it'll take before they get to Mikey too?'

Faith had to break into a jog to keep up with her partner. 'How do you know this is drug-related?'

'With one of Mikey's friends involved, it's about drugs.' Bosco looked at her over the roof of the RMP. 'Are you coming or not?'

She sighed. 'Somebody's got to keep you out of trouble.'


	4. Interrogation Part One

Thanks for the feedback. Good, bad, or indifferent, I appreciate the reviews. Feel free to pick apart any chapter if you see something out-of-keeping with the characters. I'm pretty much winging it. The next couple of chapters are going to get a bit technical. I'm going to be relying quite a bit on what I've been learning in class and using my textbooks for reference. I'll try to keep the human element in it as best I can. There are definite advantages to being a CJ major. ;-)

I want to thank the patrol sergeant from Holden Police for his input on procedures and paperwork. I've tried to work those things into the story as well. After all, what fun is a story without some semblance of accuracy?

* * *

'Are you sure this is where Mikey will be?'

'Where else would he be? He's probably getting high already.'

'Well aren't you the loving brother.'

Bosco glanced at her. 'What do you want me to say? That it's a damn shame he's pissing his life away, that I should try harder to keep him in line when I hardly ever see him?' He shook his head. 'He screws up, I won't have it coming back on me.'

'Then why are you looking for him?' Faith asked. Her question was met with silence, but she waited for an answer anyway.

'I don't know what else I'm supposed to do. One of his buddies gets murdered, and I'm supposed to say "whatever" and walk away? Uh-uh. Not happening.'

'I can't see you doing anything else.'

Bosco only sighed. A little unnerved by the shift in his mood, Faith gazed out the window at the people moving about. He obviously knew this Staples guy too. Why else would he have gone out right away to look for his brother?

'There's a runner!'

'Where?'

'Heading southbound, just saw him. He's moving fast.' Bosco replied. Faith barely had time to brace herself against the seat, both hands pressed firmly on the dashboard as Bosco whipped the cruiser around in a hard U-turn.

'Easy!'

Bosco ignored her as he activated the roof lights and siren. In the passenger's seat, his partner rolled her eyes. Going Code Three after a guy on foot – who probably hadn't even done anything wrong – was overkill, even for Bosco. 'You gonna grab him?'

'Got it.' Faith unbuckled and curled the fingers of her right hand around the door handle, every muscle tense and ready to react as soon as Bosco stopped the vehicle.

'Go!'

She yanked the handle and sprang out of the seat. Bosco reached across the seat to pull the door shut behind her as she sprinted off after the runner. 'Stop!'

The runner glanced quickly over his shoulder and saw her closing in on him. He was tiring fast. Faith saw the RMP screech to a stop at the end of the block. Bosco would be on the guy in a matter of seconds.

'C'mere punk!' Her partner snarled, sprinting out of the crowd to grab a hold of the man's jacket. 'Gotcha now.'

'I didn't do nothin'!'

'Then what'd ya run for?'

The man stared at Faith with wide eyes. 'I ain't done nothin', I swear!'

'Sure. You know a Keith Staples?'

'Never heard of him.'

'What about a Mikey Boscorelli?'

The man looked at the officer for a long moment, then darted off to the left, tearing out of Bosco's grip.

'Bastard!' Bosco swore as he picked up the chase again. 'Now I _know_ you done something.'

'Get away from me, man! I ain't gonna talk!'

'Wanna bet?' The officer grabbed the man with both hands and gave him a good push into the side of the nearest building. 'You're gonna spill, and you're gonna spill now. Do you know a Mikey Boscorelli?'

'Don't know who you're talking about.'

Bosco pressed the man's face into the brick wall. 'Don't lie to me, punk.'

'I ain't – '

'Bull.' The officer snarled. 'Start talkin', or I'll spread the word you're behind Staples' murder.'

'Wha-what? Staples is dead?'

'So you do know him.' Faith said. 'What else do you know?'

'Nothin' – '

'Ah, no. You start lying to us, we'll have to do things we don't wanna do.'

The man eyed the nightstick that appeared in Bosco's hand. 'Maybe I know somethin'.'

'Do tell.'

'I don't know much, man, just that there's some guy by the name of Boscorelli back in town. Movin' in fast on the markets.'

'What about Staples?'

'No idea – he's an old player!' The man sputtered at the none-too-gentle tap from Bsoco's nightstick. 'Been around for years. I didn't know he was dead, honest. I been in hidin' for awhile.'

'Uh-huh. Let's hear about Boscorelli some more. What's he been up to?'

'Runnin' deals around town. That boy knows what he's talkin' about.'

'Where's he been recently?'

'Here and there between Fifth and Madison Avenue Bridge.'

'You know anything else?'

'No man, that's all. I swear!'

Bosco tapped the man's back with his nightstick. 'I hope so, 'cause Staples' brother's a Marine. Hate to see him come after you for withholding information about his little brother's murder.' He released the trembling man and stepped back. 'Get outta here, jag-off.'

The man bolted, clearly relieved to get away. Faith looked at her partner. 'So now what are you going to do?'

Bosco paused to glance back as he headed for the RMP. 'Find my brother.'


	5. On The Street

Semester ends in three days! Woo-hoo!

You wanted more, you've got it.

* * *

Fifth Avenue was surprisingly crowded for a rainy afternoon. People pushed, shoved, and hustled past each other, trying to hang onto umbrellas and briefcases. Everywhere she looked, she saw a well-tailored suit or dress under a damp overcoat. Expensive cars were parked on either side of the street. Money, apparently, had its advantages. Sometimes she wondered what it would be like to have that kind of money, to not have to worry about being able to afford groceries for the week or make the rent payment on time. Would life be any better than it was now?

Probably not. There would still be work, and long hours away from her family. At least working the night shift, she was home during the day in case somebody needed her. Working down here, amongst the upper-class, would mean day shifts. She wasn't willing to change jobs just for the money. There had to be other benefits offered before she would even consider it. Besides, she loved walking the beat.

'Hey. Earth to Yokas. You there?'

Faith tore her gaze away from the window to look over at her partner. 'What?'

'I just asked if you saw anything.'

'Oh, no. Sorry. I wasn't listening.'

Bosco snorted. 'That's an understatement.'

'Hey, I was thinking. Is that a crime?'

'Problems at home?'

'No, everything's fine.' She replied, a little irritated at the question.

'All right. Just askin'.' Bosco turned his attention back to the road. After a few moments of silence, he said, ''Cause if Fred's been giving you trouble – '

'Bosco, there's nothing wrong!'

'Okay! Sorry.'

Faith shook her head, gazing out the window. Leave it to Bosco to irritate her. He always managed it, one way or another. But he was a good friend anyway. She wondered why he and his brother were so different. They stood on opposite sides of the law and were often at odds with each other because of that. Mikey was constantly in and out of trouble, and it was hard on Bosco to have to choose between his brother and the law.

'Figures that Mikey would be out here. It's the perfect place to do business.' Bosco said. 'I mean, look at all these rich people. Must be a huge market for that crap here. I bet half the city's dealers work out of here when they can.'

'Money draws all sorts of people.'

'Yeah it does. How many of these bigwigs do you think are regular users? Stress of the job and all that. Got to relieve it somehow, so why not get stoned?'

Faith grinned. 'Yeah, they've got it so hard.' Her gaze fell on a small group huddled in the meagre shelter of a doorway. 'Hey Bos, look over there.'

'Where?'

'There.' Faith pointed.

'I'll be damned. How much you wanna bet Mikey's over there.' Bosco reached down for the switches on the console between the seats. 'Looks like a good time to shake up their world.'

'Let me out here, they'll run the second we pull up.'

'Got it.' Bosco pulled over quickly to let her out. Faith made sure her hat was on securely as she walked toward the group. As soon as Bosco showed up in the cruiser, they'd scatter. _There he goes, in a blaze of glory as always._ She broke into a run as her partner brought the RMP to a sharp halt at the curb. Sure enough, the group in the doorway spooked.

'Nobody move!' Bosco shouted, charging around the front of the cruiser. 'Get your hands where I can see 'em!'

'Get 'em out!' Faith echoed as she arrived on the scene. 'Show me your hands!'

Reluctantly, each person pulled their hands from their pockets and spread out along the wall at Bosco's impatient order. The two officers moved in cautiously to pat down the members of the group.

'You. You look like a badass. What's goin' down here?'

'Nothin', man. Just chillin'.'

Bosco carefully probed the inside of the man's jacket. 'Uh-huh. What can you tell me about Keith Staples?'

The man curled his lip at the question and didn't respond. Faith gave the man a sharp prod with her nightstick. 'You were asked a question.'

'Go to hell.'

'And keep you company? Not a chance. Answer the damn question.'

'I already answered, bitch. I ain't talkin' to no girl 'bout nothin'.'

'Oh yeah? C'mere.' Faith grabbed the man's shoulder to pull him toward the RMP. He lashed out when her fingers tightened on his jacket and used her startled half-step back to attempt to run.

'Not today, tough guy.' Bosco snarled, lunging at the man. His partner took one swing at the man's legs with her baton and the momentary struggle was over.

'You'll be talkin' fast real soon, pal.'

'My leg! You broke it. You broke my leg, bitch!'

Faith helped her partner drag the man upright. 'Grow up, it's just a bruise.' Together, the two officers escorted the groaning man to the RMP. 'Get in there and shut up. We'll deal with you in a minute.'

'Any of you jokers want to talk now?' Bosco demanded, walking purposefully back toward the people still standing along the wall. 'I want to know about Keith Staples, and one of you is going to tell me. Who's it gonna be?'

Nobody spoke.

'C'mon, one of you knows something. You don't speak up, that makes you all accessory to murder. I have no problems at all running each and every one of you into lockup. Let's hear something from one of you, and let's hear it fast.'

At the far end of the line, somebody timidly lifted one arm into the air. Bosco was on him in a heartbeat.

'You got somethin' to say?'

'Y-yeah.'

'So let's hear it.'

The kid looked terrified and kept his hands pressed against the wall. 'I know Staples. Used to go to high school with him.'

'And?'

'Pretty tight with some guy called Mikey or somethin'. Last I knew they was hangin' out down to the Bowery.'

'This Mikey got a last name?'

'Funny-sounding name. Bozorally or somethin' like that.'

'You know where to find this Mikey?'

'No way, man, I ain't no punk. Don't rat out nobody.'

'You just did. C'mon, you're joining your buddy over there in the back of our squad. The detectives will want to talk to you back at the station.' Bsoco pulled the kid away from the wall. 'Let's go, junior.'

'What about the rest of you? Got anything to add?' Faith demanded.

'Yokas, come on. We gotta get these two stars down to lockup.'

'Beat it, all of you. I catch you gathering out here again, you'll all be on your way to Rikers.'

* * *

'Sorry we couldn't find Mikey tonight, Bosco.'

Bosco only grunted, hanging up his uniform in his locker. He hadn't said much since the shift ended.

'Want to go out for a drink?'

'No.'

'Are you sure?'

He shut his locker with a bang. 'Yeah. Not tonight. You've got to home to Fred and the kids anyway.'

'Bosco.'

'I'm all right. Really, I am. See you tomorrow?'

'Yeah.' Faith said quietly as Bosco brushed past her toward the door. 'Hey, Bos.'

He paused to look back and she managed a half-grin. 'We'll find him tomorrow.'

Bosco said nothing and disappeared around the corner, leaving Faith alone in front of her locker.


	6. Finding Mikey

Back for awhile. I'm writing like there's no tomorrow, and I promise to chapter whenever I can.

Enjoy!

* * *

'You're early today, Bosco.'

'Yeah.'

Faith tightened her gunbelt around her waist and checked that her nightstick was in place. She had a feeling she was going to need it.

'You think we're going to have more luck tonight?'

'Yeah.'

Sully shut his locker. 'What's up with you, Bosco? No smartass remarks today?'

'Buzz off, Sullivan.'

'I'll take that as a no. See you guys in roll call.' He walked out, his partner following. Shaking her head, Faith grabbed her hat and jacket.

'Come on, Bos. We'll be late.'

* * *

He was oddly silent as they emerged from the station house to pick out their cruiser. Faith was a little unnerved by this but refrained from commenting. It was natural he'd be worried about his brother. For all his bluster about not caring, she knew he did. She started the vehicle and turned on the roof lights to make sure none of the bulbs had burnt out. Bosco checked out the cage behind the front seats. Sometimes odd things got lodged in between the barrier and the metal that held it up.

'All set?'

'Yeah.'

She nodded silently and got into the driver's seat. It was apparent to her that his mind was too much on other things to focus on driving. He plopped himself into the vehicle without a word.

'You think he'll be around Fifth Avenue?'

'Maybe.'

'We'll find him.' Faith said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. Mikey could be nearly impossible to find if he didn't want to be found.

'What do I tell Ma?'

'What is there to tell her?'

'If we don't find Mikey. What do I tell her if, he's the next body we find in an alley somewhere. What do I say when I have to tell her that I couldn't protect my own brother from the people he knows?'

Faith glanced over quickly and saw that he was staring at a point somewhere ahead of the RMP. 'You won't have to tell her anything like that. We'll find him, safe and in one piece. I promise.'

'Don't.' Bosco looked at her. 'Don't promise me anything. Especially not about things you can't make come true.'

'I – Bosco, nothing is going to happen to your brother. Okay?'

'Yeah.'

She gave up and sighed. They had to find Mikey.

* * *

'NYPD, open up.' Bosco rapped at the door with the butt of his nightstick, sounding bored. Faith waited a couple of paces behind him. They were responding to their third domestic disturbance in nearly two hours. The last two had been resolved without any arrests or charges. Sadly typical, Faith thought. The evidence was painfully evident, but nothing ever got done to put a stop to it.

'Open up!'

Again silence from within. Her partner rolled his eyes and sighed. If there was anything he hated more than stupid criminals, it was people wasting his time. He started to turn away from the door in disgust when there was a loud crash from inside the apartment. Somebody starting screaming obscenities over the noise of a child crying.

Bosco's face turned to stone as he wheeled around and planted his boot against the door. 'Police! Get on the floor!' He yelled, nightstick in hand and Faith right behind.

The living room was chaos. A shattered vase lay in pieces on the carpet and there was evidence of other broken items scattered around the room. The woman was curled up in a ball on the couch, blooding leaking from numerous cuts on her face and hands, likely from the glass vase. The man was standing over her, fist raised. His intentions were clear. With one last shout of "Police!", Bosco darted forward and swung his nightstick.

The woman screamed as the man fell in a heap, both hands grabbing at his knee. She came to her feet with startling speed and lunged at Bosco. Faith caught her and pulled her back, doing her best to calm the woman down. Bosco stared down at the man on the floor.

'I said get down, jag-off.'

'Don't hurt him! He didn't mean it! Don't hurt him!'

Bosco looked up at the woman and Faith was saddened by the anguish in his eyes. ' "Don't hurt him"? Lady, he stays here, you're gonna get smacked around again. You really want that?'

'He didn't mean it, he's just angry at me, it's all my fault!'

'Yeah, those bruises and cuts all over you are all your fault.' Bosco prodded the moaning heap on the floor with the end of his nightstick. 'Get up, you're going to jail.'

'Nooo! Don't take my Harry, he's not bad – '

'Shut up,' Bosco muttered, reaching down to haul the man to his feet. 'C'mon, jag-off, there's a nice seat in our car waitin' for you.' He slapped the handcuffs on the man's wrists and gave him a hearty shove toward the door. 'Move it.'

Faith released the sobbing woman, who sank to the floor. Without a word, she followed her partner out the door, taking care to pull it shut behind her.

* * *

'Feeling better now?'

'Yeah.'

'That really wasn't necessary.'

'What? Giving that guy a little tap on the knee?'

'That and arresting him.'

'Come on, Yokas. He was asking for it.'

'How?'

'What, you didn't see the guy standing over her with his hand back? If we hadn't gone in, it would've just gone on and on. It always does.'

'You know she'll just bail him out.'

'That's her problem, not mine. I've done my job and locked him up. Maybe that will be enough to shake him up.'

Faith just shook her head. There was rarely any use in arguing. She just kept walking, alert for anything suspicious. Mikey had to know they were looking for him. They'd mentioned his name enough the day before that word was sure to have spread like wildfire.

A piercing whistle rent the air, its source hidden by the press of people on the sidewalk. Bosco was instantly on alert, scanning the sea of faces for the whistler. The whistle came again and Faith saw somebody bolt away from a small paper bag that was lying against some stairs.

'Bosco, a runner!'

'I got him!' He was already flying away down the street, pushing people out of the way. She knew she wouldn't be able to keep up and ran instead for the RMP parked a couple blocks back.

There was no sign of Bosco or the skel he had been chasing when she brought the cruiser to a sharp halt near where they had first spotted him. A little irritated, she flicked off the siren and cruised around the corner. People paused to stare at the flashing roof lights, then continued on their way. _Come on, Bosco, where are you?_

She got her answer when he bolted straight into traffic, hard on the heels of the runner. Screeching brakes and blaring horns marked their passage across the busy street. Faith cranked the wheel around hard and pulled into the space left by the stopped traffic. If she was lucky, she could cut the guy off before he got to the other side of the street.

There was a flash of motion on the left side of the cruiser. Faith flinched and stomped on the brake pedal as the runner ploughed full-on into the vehicle and tumbled across the hood. She stared through the windshield, her heart racing at the shock, for several long moments. Bosco pounded to a stop in front of the RMP and grabbed the man's jacket to haul him up.

'That'll teach you to run from the police. Get over here.'

'Take it easy, Bos. He might be hurt.'

'So what? He didn't hit that hard. He'll be fine. Where's Mikey Boscorelli?'

'I don't know!'

'That's not an answer.' Bosco pressed the man's sweating face into the heated metal of the cruiser's hood. 'Where's Mikey Boscorelli?'

The man cried out and struggled to push away from the hood. 'Madison Avenue! By the bridge!'

'What building?' Bosco demanded, keeping the man's face down.

'Bosco, stop. He's getting burnt!'

'It's an apartment. Just around the corner from Fifth. 1126, Apartment 3A.'

'That better be accurate.'

'Enough, Bosco.'

'Get outta here.' Bosco pulled the man upright and gave him a shove. 'I wouldn't hang around, if I were you, if you're lyin' to me.'

The man staggered off, one hand pressed against the side of his face that had touched the cruiser's hood. There was a smirk on Bosco's face as he walked round the RMP to drop into the passenger's seat. Faith remained on her feet, oblivious to the incessant pinging sound that announced the driver's door had been left open. She was a little shocked at Bosco's tactics. He wasn't usually that… what word best fit how he was acting? Reckless? Ruthless, maybe? _But this is about his brother…_

'Are we goin' or not?'

His impatient question jolted her back to reality. She realised that people were staring and she got back into the cruiser quickly. 'Yeah, we're goin'.'

* * *

The RMP rolled to a stop outside the apartment building. Both officers inside in looked up at the shabby building tucked in between well-kept structures.

'What a dump.' Bosco muttered, and Faith was inclined to agree. Someone had done a sloppy paint job on the street-facing side of the building. The old paint showed through patches of the top layer, giving the building a polka-dot look.

'All right, let's go.'

Faith let her partner get out first. 'Five-Five David to Central. We'll be 10-89 for a house-call.'

'Ten-four,Five-Five David. 10-89 at 1623.'

'Bosco, wait up.' Faith trotted after her partner, who was already at the front door of the apartment building. He waited long enough for her to get within two paces, then elbowed open the door and vanished inside. She sighed and hurried after him.

Halfway up the second flight of stairs, they heard a distinctive _pop_. Instinctively, the pair crouched down, weapons sliding automatically out of holsters. Bosco crept up the stairs, cautious now, his partner right behind. _Like always._ He thought.

'Five-Five David to Central, shots fired at this location. 1126 West 138th. Request backup.'

'Ten-four, David.'

Faith moved up the stairs, carefully to avoid making too much noise.

'Five-Five Charlie en route. ETA three minutes.'

'Ten-four Charlie.'

Third floor landing. The two officers spread apart, covering the hallway as they advanced. The apartment they were looking for was at the far end. Finding cover if a shoot-out erupted would be next to impossible. Faith swallowed a tiny seed of fear and touched her chest, reassuring herself that she'd remembered to strap on her vest.

There was another shot, much louder and closer this time. In the distance, sirens were wailing. By the time Sully and Davis got on-scene, she hoped that the situation would be defused.

The two officers reached the door and flanked it. There wasn't any sound from within. Bosco drove his shoulder into the thin wood of the door, which splintered easily. He and Faith stormed into the living room, both shouting at the startled occupants to get on the floor. One man was already down, two bullet holes in his middle. The others were yelling at the officers, who were yelling at them. Somebody jumped to his feet, swinging his arm up. There was a third _pop._ The yelling continued as the man toppled backward onto the couch. Faith heard someone shouting into a radio, calling for a bus, and realised that she was hearing herself make the call. Bosco was covering the occupants, finally facedown on the carpet. Sully and Davis were there, searching each man for hidden weapons. _When did they get here? They're supposed to be three minutes out._

'Yokas.'

She became aware of her racing heartbeat. The adrenaline was pumping through her veins, lending her energy. _Have I just been standing here?_ Her gun was like a dead weight in her hand. She glanced down at it, then slid it back into its holster. _What happened?_ Somebody had shot the man who'd drawn on them, but it couldn't have been her. She would have known if she had pulled the trigger.

'Yokas.'

Bosco's hand on her arm caused her to look up. 'What?'

'Sergeant's here. He wants your gun.'

'My gun?'

'Yeah. You fired at the guy, remember?'

_I did?_ 'Yeah, yeah, I remember. Right.' Faith felt strangely dazed. _Why can't I remember squeezing the trigger, or feeling the recoil? Why can't I remember the slide clicking back, ejecting the spent cartridge?_ She redrew her weapon and stared at it for a moment before ejecting the magazine and locking back the slide. Sergeant Christopher took it without a word.

'Hey, you all right?'

'Yeah, I'm fine.'

Bosco's face lit up. 'We got him. He's here. We got him.'

'Got who?'

'Mikey.'


	7. Interrogation Part Two

It's so easy to forget what goes through an officer's mind during situations like the one in the previous chapter. Most of the attention gets focussed on _what_ happened instead of _why_ it happened. It's not something most officers like to do, pulling the trigger on another person, even if the other guy draws on them. I remember reading that NYPD has issued sidearms that have high-resistance triggers – meaning that to fire the weapon, an officer has to apply ten pounds of force against the trigger. In other words, the officer has to be sure that firing his weapon is what he really wants to do.

Sorry, I was at a police ethics refresher course the other day. It's still kind of foremost on my mind. /blush/ I sound like a professor.

Something to think about, anyway.

* * *

Before I forget – which I have a bad tendency to do – I may flip-flop the radio codes, because after looking over the NYPD listing, I felt it a little lacking. Just a heads-up for you guys, so you don't think I've gone nutters or something. I'm likely to use the Maine State Police codes in place of a few NYPD codes because I'm more familiar with those, having heard them in use firsthand.

* * *

Mikey was sitting uncomfortably in a metal chair in the interrogation room, fidgeting nervously. He had no idea what was going on and Bosco was counting on that. He watched his brother from the other side of the one-way mirror, waiting for his partner to get there. She was still talking to Sergeant Christopher and a couple of guys from IAB. Bosco snorted quietly. The rat squad. They always got involved when an officer had to shoot somebody. With any luck, they'd be done soon and he could carry on his own investigation. It shouldn't take long anyway. Yokas had been on the street long enough to know how those meetings went. She'd be along any minute now.

'He say anything yet?'

'Not a word. I haven't gone in yet anyway.'

Yokas folded her arms and studied the man waiting in the other room. 'I never thought I'd see him back in one of these rooms.'

'Me neither.'

'Really?'

'Yeah, believe it or not. He said he was goin' straight.' Bosco pursed his lips, trying to keep his frustration hidden. 'Guess he lied.'

'You want me to talk to him first?'

'Yeah, he might talk to you more. I was the one who arrested him, after all.' Bosco let out a weary sigh and opened the door to the interrogation room. Mikey's head snapped up as Yokas stepped into the room, his expression immediately relieved.

'Faith! Can you get me out of this?'

'That depends.'

Mikey's relief faded quickly into wariness. 'Depends on what?'

'On what you can tell me.' Faith ignored the chair on the other side of the table for the moment. 'How well do you know Keith Staples?'

'I don't know who you're talking about.'

'I think you do. Word gets around fast on the street, you know that as well as I do.'

'I've never heard of the guy.'

'Okay. Fair enough. Maybe you recognise the guy in these pictures, then.'

Mikey stared at the crime scene photographs that Faith tossed casually onto the table in front of him. The body and the evidence markers all around it were the centre of each picture. His face lost colour as he looked at each one, until his cheeks were as white as a sheet of paper.

'I'll ask you again. How well did you know Keith Staples?'

'He's a dealer on my block. We worked for the same guy.' Mikey's eyes were riveted on the image of Staples lying in a puddle of dried blood. 'He was a decent enough guy. Always had a joke or a smoke if you wanted one.'

'You see him the night he was killed?'

'No. I was out… doin' stuff. Haven't seen him in a week.'

Faith leant forward, using the table for support. 'Come on, Mikey. You know more than that. You tell me, or we'll turn you back onto the street and put the word out you had a hand in Staples' murder.'

'I didn't – '

'You think that will matter to the guys who knew Staples too? They're probably wonderin' if somebody has been moving in on their territory. Do you really want to be the one they finger for this?'

Mikey swallowed, clearly nervous. 'I had nothin' to do with this, and I don't know anybody who does.' His face hardened. 'What's it matter, anyway? He's dead.'

Bosco's partner nodded slowly and pushed away from the table. 'Okay. If that's the way you want it, that's fine with me.' She was halfway out the door before she paused to look back. 'I'd hate to be the first guy his brother runs into when he gets into the city. Those Force Recon Marines aren't the type to mess with.'

The door swung closed, cutting off her view of Mikey's shocked face.

'Think he'll buy it?'

'What's not to buy? It's true. Staples' brother is a gunnery sergeant with the…' Faith opened a folder on the desk near the door leading back into the precinct lobby and flipped through several pages. 'He's with the 2nd Platoon, 1st Force Recon Company. Swerky has already spoken to him and says he's going to be arriving either tomorrow or Monday.' She made a face. 'I'd hate to be on the streets when this guy starts asking questions.'

Bosco shrugged indifferently. 'If it shakes loose some information about this whole mess, I really don't care who gets in the way. I just want to know Mikey's not gonna get caught in the backlash.'

'What makes you think there will be one?'

''Cause there always is.'

* * *

'All units of the Five-Five, 10-50, intersection of Arthur and Lennox. Several subjects involved.'

Bosco rolled his eyes as he spun the wheel around hard. Figures there's a fight. Tonight of all nights, when I just want it to be a quiet shift. He activated the lights and stepped down on the gas.

'Five-Five David to Central, intersection of Arthur and Lennox.'

'Ten-four, David.'

Faith pulled her nightstick into her lap. 'You think there will be a few of these when Staples' brother shows up?'

'Maybe.'

'I bet we'll get stuck with the mess he leaves.'

'Probably.'

'Mikey will be glad to know you bailed him out.'

'I guess.'

His partner sighed. 'Don't you have anything to say other than that?'

'What is there to say? He's free to do whatever he wants, just like always. As for Staples' brother, he can the biggest badass Marine that walked the earth for all I care. As long as he keeps his business from messin' up my shift, it's okay by me.' Bosco stomped on the brakes as the RMP reached the scene of the fight. He was out of the cruiser in a twinkling, his nightstick gripped tightly in his hand. Faith tumbled out after him.

'Break it up!'

There was a flash of hard black plastic and somebody went down. People were scattering as fast as they could go as 55 Charlie rolled up. Faith chased down a heavy-set man and pulled him to a sharp stop. Sully and Ty had rounded up a couple of stragglers and were placing cuffs on each. Bosco stood by his catch, a broad grin on his face. She couldn't help grinning back. For all his griping and short-temperedness, he liked his job.

'Good collar.'

'You too.'

'Hey, Sully. Glad you could join us.'

Sully smirked at Bosco. 'Funny, Bosco. Nice to see you back to normal.'

'Hey, was I ever not?'

Faith shook her head and pushed her prisoner toward the cruiser. 'C'mon, pal, there's a seat over here for you.'

'Five-Five David to Central.'

'Go ahead, David.'

'Ten-eighty-one with two.'

'Ten-four, David. Show you 10-81 at 1902.'

Bosco slid into the driver's seat and chuckled. 'You know, Yokas, maybe this isn't such a bad night after all.'


	8. Day Shift

I've decided to include in each chapter a brief paragraph dedicated solely to tidbits of information about the field of law enforcement, gleaned from classes I have taken, stories I have been told by officers, and firsthand experience whilst on ride-alongs. I trust that this will not raise ire with any of you – I will cease this practise straightaway if so asked.

Also, in regards to a review that I received concerning my use of apostrophes rather than the requisite quotation marks. My apologies for the stylistic deviance, sir. It has been my habit and practise for the past couple of years to forego quotation marks to denote dialogue, as I have seen done in a number of novels. It's purely a stylistic preference, but I shall endeavour to adjust myself to suit, if so possible.

* * *

Stress is a silent hunter amongst law enforcement officers. The natural stress of the job – the long hours, the people on the street, other officers – coupled with issues with family or significant others provide highly fertile environments for stress-related illnesses. Outside of the department, few understand the pressures and stress. Officers tend to stick together, because they know and can sympathise with each other. However, it's often not enough. Many officers turn to alcohol to relieve the pressure of their job from their mind. It's not uncommon for officers who have spent a good many years on the street to finally give in and use their service weapons on themselves. In these cases, it's not uncommon for departments to rule the death "accidental", which allows the family to receive the officer's pension and benefits – these would have been denied otherwise, if the death had been ruled a suicide. Just one of the ways that the Thin Blue Line takes care of its own.

* * *

The apartment was dark and silent as she eased open the front door, grateful that it did not creak for once. Her boots thudded mutely on the worn carpet on the floor and the keys dangling from her hand clinked together softly, as though somehow knowing that any sound was too loud. She looked around and sighed. The kitchen was spotless, the dishes long since washed and put away, the counters wiped down. There were no toys, books, or clothes strewn about the living room. Even the carpet had been vacuumed. The still and surprisingly clean apartment seemed alien to her. How much did she miss when she was at work?

A picture on the television drew her attention. It was an image of the family, all smiles and to all appearances, perfectly happy. She wished that was true. Tensions in the apartment were on the rise again as a result of her working overtime for nearly a week straight. An endless cycle of ups and downs that constantly threatened the delicate balance she worked so hard to maintain. In the small part of her mind, the part that always whispered evil things, she wondered if sooner or later, it would fall apart even beyond her ability to control. It was her job. It always was.

With another quiet sigh, she placed her keys on the counter. It was late, and she needed to be up early the next morning. Bosco had asked her to meet him at the coffee shop "for a talk." She knew what he wanted to discuss. Even though she had her own private reservations about his brother's innocence, she knew that Bosco wouldn't give up until the truth hit him full on. He never did.

Fred was lightly snoring, rolled over so that his back was to the door. She watched him sleep and wondered why it was so hard for him to understand her reasons for being a cop. Every time something happened, he always questioned her to the point where she wanted to simply leave and take some time to herself, if only for a couple of hours. The stress of the job was more than enough – she didn't need Fred constantly after her about changing jobs too. She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off her boots, making sure that they were not left in the middle of the floor. There was nothing to say and no one to say it to. Just the silence that was broken only by his gentle snores. Before she lay down herself, she leant over to softly kiss his cheek. For all the arguments they had, she was glad he stayed around. She was ever in need of his support.

"Night." She whispered, and closed her eyes.

* * *

Bosco drummed his fingers on the countertop, impatient and irritated. His partner was late. He'd been waiting for almost twenty minutes and was on his third cup of coffee. She was going to owe him if he had another. He shifted in his seat and took a sip of the steaming brew. It was good coffee, and worth paying for, but he wouldn't wait much longer anyway. There were things that needed to be taken care of.

Things that were going to have to wait. His partner hurried past the coffee house window and pushed through the door. She surveyed the interior until she spotted him.

"Sorry I'm late, I got stuck taking the kids to school."

"Fred couldn't do it?"

Faith shook her head. "He was gone when I got up. Must've had to go to work early today."

"Figures."

"Come on, Bosco. He works just as hard as I do."

"If you say so." Bosco took another sip of coffee.

She played with a napkin on the table. "What are you going to do about him?"

"Who, Mikey? Let him do his thing. Maybe he'll lead us to the guys who did this. I bet he knows who they are."

"Probably. He knows enough people like that." Faith flagged down a waitress for some coffee. The two partners sat in silence for a few minutes, each entertaining their own thoughts about the same thing.

"Mikey's back on the street."

"Since this morning?"

"Yeah. I let him sit in lockup overnight to think things over, then paid his bail. He's been out since six."

She looked at him, a trace of worry flickering across her face. "Have you slept at all, Bosco?"

"Enough." He replied, irritated at her concern. "I asked Lieu if I could work a double today. He wants me back at the house in half an hour to pick up O'Shea's beat."

"You want a partner?"

"Why? O'Shea's got a one-man circuit. Two of us walking it is overkill."

Faith leant forward on her elbows, ignoring the mug of coffee the waitress had placed on the table for her. Her brown eyes studied his face closely, making him shift uneasily in his seat.

"What?"

"You're willing to work a double without a partner?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"Bosco, O'Shea's beat is in the middle of drug territory. I know what you're up to, and you're not going alone."

Bosco scowled at her. "Since when? I don't have an 'agenda', if that's what you think. I'm just working a double today." He stood up, his irritation at her getting the best of him. "See you tonight."

Faith watched him stride quickly out and tried not to be angry in return. What was going on that had him so on edge? She got to her feet and went to the counter to pay the tab. As hard-headed and stubborn as Bosco was, she could match him each time.

* * *

He was on his way out of the locker room when she arrived at the house. Upon seeing her, he frowned and walked immediately to Swersky's office, clearly hoping to beat her there. Faith lengthened her stride to get to the lieutenant's door ahead of her partner. They got there seconds apart.

"Lieu, I'd like to work with Boscorelli on O'Shea's beat."

"Lieu, would you mind telling Yokas that O'Shea's beat is a one-man route?"

Swersky looked up in surprise at the clash of voices. "What?"

"I'd like to work a double today. I heard that O'Shea's beat was available."

"In part. Boscorelli has already requested it."

"And I don't need anyone hanging over my shoulder this shift, either." Bosco said forcefully, folding his arms.

"Someone's got to keep you out of trouble." Faith shot back.

"Hey. Let's keep the fighting for when we're off-shift, okay? Yokas, I don't have a problem with you working a double today. I've got a couple of guys out anyway. Boscorelli, you and Yokas work together on the night shift, so there's no reason you can't work together on this one. O'Shea is normally assigned as Five-Five Edward Foot, so that will be yours for the day. Go get changed, Yokas. You're running behind."

"Yes sir." She left right away, leaving Bosco to argue the point in vain.

* * *

"What is your problem?"

Faith clipped the shoulder mike to her jacket. "Nice to be working with you too. Thanks for taking seven hours out of your day to watch my back."

"I don't need anyone to watch my back. Nothing is going to happen today."

"Sure. Is that why you bailed your brother out?"

Bosco made a face. "You ask too many questions."

"You answer too few questions."

They walked in silence for nearly a block and a half. Faith wondered what he was hoping to see during the shift that they didn't see normally. Maybe he hoped to catch his brother alerting his buddies or something. She didn't know and that bothered her. Not knowing what Bosco might be planning was dangerous, but she couldn't let him work this beat by himself. He was too likely to get himself into trouble without someone there to watch out for him.

"You wanna talk about it?"

"About what?"

"Mikey. Staples. Whatever's going on."

Bosco set his jaw and paused to watch a couple on the other side of the street. "There's nothing to talk about. Mikey's life is his own."

"You keep saying that."

"Someone has to keep him out of trouble."

"Just like someone has to keep you out of trouble."

A slight smile tugged at his mouth. "Point taken."

"I wonder how much hell Staples' brother is going to raise."

"He better not raise any, at least not while I'm workin'."

Faith smiled. "Agreed. We haven't had a quiet shift in how long?"

"Too long."

Their radios crackled to life with alert tones. "Central to Five-Five Edward Foot."

The two partners exchanged frowns. "Looks like this won't be a quiet shift, either." Bosco muttered. "Eddie Foot, go ahead."

"Respond to 10-34 on the corner of West 147th and FDR. Multiple subjects involved. Ten-three?"

"That's right around the corner." Faith said.

"Five-Five Edward Foot, West 147th and FDR." Bosco pulled his hat tighter on his head. "Let's go."

The two officers broke into a run that carried them around the corner and down two blocks. 'Right around the corner' turned out to be a relative term. Faith was out of breath by the time she and Bosco pounded onto the scene. The combatants were still going at it, oblivious to all but where their punches were going. Pausing only a moment to take in the situation, the two officers moved in. Several frantic, blurred moments later, two men were down and a third running as fast as his legs would carry him. Bosco let him go. His attention was focussed on a lean man in green and khaki.

"You must be Staples."

The Marine gave him a sideways, evaluative look. "Yes sir."

"Startin' fights on my shift isn't smart, Marine. I don't like it when hotshots come in and shake things up."

"Fights, sir? This wasn't a fight. This was an intelligence-gathering mission."

Bosco folded his arms. "Looks like a fight, sounds like a fight, smells like a fight. It must be a fight."

"Five-Five Eddie Foot, requesting a bus at this location."

"Ten-four, Eddie Foot."

Faith cuffed one of the men still on the ground. "Sit tight, pal."

The man glared up at her, fingering his bloodied nose. "C'mon, he's the one you should be cuffin'. He tried to kill me!"

"Kill you?" The Marine glanced dismissively at the man. "Son, if I wanted to kill you, it would have been over before you knew I'd grabbed you."

This statement, delivered in a flat, dispassionate tone, caused the man who was its target to lower his eyes and took an interest in the silver handcuffs on his wrists and at the same time, send a chill through Faith. She knew very little about military training, but she had a feeling this Marine was more than capable of doing a great deal of damage with his bare hands. She touched the butt of her gun briefly as she stood up, reassured by its presence. The Marine made her nervous with his air of cool confidence.

"You got into the city awful fast."

Staples shrugged. "I don't like to waste time. Besides, this is family business."

"Family business. Okay." Bosco nodded casually, curling his lip up ever so slightly. "Let me tell you something about family business. My brother's involved in this mess too, and you'd be smart to stay well away from him."

"If he is involved in this, he's fair game."

A dangerous glint came into Bosco's eyes. Faith saw it and stepped forward to be ready to restrain her partner. "Listen here, pal. This is my city, and you play by my rules. You stay away from my brother, and anyone else who peddles out here. Leave 'em to us. This ain't your business."

"I will stay away from nobody who has information about my brother. It's that simple. If you don't want to get hurt, I would suggest you keep your distance." Staples said quietly. "You may be the guys who run things around here, but I doubt you have the stomach to go after these scum the way they deserve."

Bosco trembled, but Faith was there to push him back a step. "Let it go, Bos. The bus is here."

He sneered at the Marine and spun away. "You. Black eye. Get up." He hauled the man to his feet as two paramedics trotted over from their bus.

"How bad are they hurt?"

"They'll live."

The paramedic whose nametag read "Malone" rolled her eyes, checking the man Faith had cuffed. "Things are never dull when you guys are involved."

"This one has a concussion. His eyes aren't tracking."

"Get him into the bus." Malone sighed. "You don't really appreciate a good partner until you have to train a new one."

"What happened to your old partner?"

"Couldn't take the job anymore."

She didn't need to say anything else. Faith stood back whilst Malone led the second man over to the bus.

"I'll just tape this guy's nose, then he's all yours."

"Thanks."

Bosco nodded, watching the Marine carefully as though he expected him to do something unexpected. Staples stood quietly, letting the paramedics go about their work. From the blank expression on his face, it didn't seem like he was even paying attention. Only his eyes moved, taking in every detail around him. Faith shuddered inwardly. He's like a sleeping lion. One wrong move and he'll be all over you.

"Five-Five Edward Foot to Central. Request an RMP to this location for a transport."

"Ten-four, Eddie Foot. Five-Five Charlie en route. ETA five minutes."

Her partner made a face. "Five minutes. Man, that's right! Sully and Davis aren't Charlie this morning. They would have been here already."

"Bosco stop whining."

"What, you don't regret takin' this shift? Damn, I should've stayed in bed." Bosco paced impatiently around the sidewalk, scowling. 'I don't know about this job, sometimes. We try so hard, and it makes no difference at all."

"Take it easy, Bos. It doesn't do any good to stew about it."

"Oh yeah? Great. So I just let everything slide, because it's what's best?" Bosco sneered at the concrete. "That's bull."

Faith bit her lip and turned away. She knew what he was feeling, and what he was leaving unsaid. It was something she wrestled with far too often herself. Each day, at the end of each shift, she wondered if it was worth it. And each time, she told herself that it was, that there was a point, there was a purpose, for wearing the uniform and the badge. It meant something. Something that only she knew, only she could touch and make real. Her own reasons for doing the job.

Five-Five Charlie rolled up to the curb, its red and white lights flashing almost merrily. Two officers she didn't recognise climbed out and approached.

"You got a collar?"

The way the smaller cop said it made it sound as though it was nothing. Just run-of-the-mill, routine arrest. In many ways it was, and in as many others it wasn't.

"Sort of. Marine NCO standing over there started it all. Hasn't given us any trouble. I don't think you'll have a problem with him."

"Uh-huh. Is he secure for transport?"

Faith glanced over at her partner, who was glaring at something across the street. She sighed. "Give me a second."

Staples said nothing as she snapped the cuffs on his wrists. He seemed unperturbed about the whole affair, even as she helped him into the back of the cruiser. The two officers nodded at her, got back into the vehicle, and were off again. She watched the cruiser weave its way into traffic. A strange, fluttering feeling at the back of her mind whispered that this arrest was just the beginning. _The beginning of what?_ The feeling went away, but she remained uneasy. There was something in that Marine's easy compliance that set off alarms inside her head. It was too easy.

She shook the doubts away. On the street, doubts got you into trouble. "Come on, Bosco. We're done here."


	9. Tactics

There are five levels of force. Depending on the circumstances, an officer may progress from one level to another in the process of restoring order. To defuse a situation, the first step is simple command presence. Looking confident and in control is important. An officer who appears squared away and who always look people directly in the eye is more than likely going to secure a subject. Verbal commands are the next step, but they also go hand-in-hand with presence. "Tactical talking" on the part of the officer – when used correctly – can bring an end to a situation before it escalates further. An officer must look like he is ready to back up his words with action. If a subject continues to be resistant, controlling force may be used. This is not fighting, but restraint. The officer who is at this level of escalation may be either restraining an out-of-control person or pushing away a persistent drunk. Touching an agitated person can result in that person lashing out. If causing bodily harm to the officer or bystanders is clearly the intent of the person, the officer is entitled to use impact weapons to subdue him or her. Normally, the impact weapon of choice is the baton, but officers may choose to utilise pepper spray first. (Chemical agents like pepper spray are considered to be controlling force by some departments.) Impact force is reserved for assault situations. The next and final level is deadly force. This is the last resort. If a subject is attempting to inflict great bodily harm on the officer or somebody in the officer's immediate presence, the officer is entitled to use deadly force. All other options must be exhausted before reaching this point, or the actions of the subject may dictate a jump from simple verbal commands to deadly force. Officers who know the levels of escalation and use them properly will nearly always gain the upper hand in a tense situation.

* * *

This chapter won't focus entirely on Bosco and Faith. There will be a couple of new characters in this one. Just a head's up.

* * *

The two detectives in the interrogation room exchanged weary glances, ignoring for the moment the expressionless Marine across the table from them. For all intents and purposes, he was completely guilty of the assaults on two drug-heads, but that wasn't what bothered them. The Marine's casual dismissal of getting a lawyer and his calm acknowledgement of the acts was unnerving. Didn't he care that he was in trouble?

"Sir, I don't know if you understand the ramifications of what you're admitting to. You picked a fight with three men for no reason."

"They had information that I needed. That's reason enough."

"You put one man in the hospital and you don't give a damn?"

"No." The Marine tilted his head slightly to the side. "What does it matter, anyway? Those guys are known drug-dealers. Why not take them off the street for awhile?"

"That's not the way we operate, sir. We do things _legally_. This isn't about dungaree justice."

"What's being done about my brother?"

"We're investigating. It would be appropriate if you refrained from scaring off or hospitalising any more potential sources of information."

"I'll think about it."

"No, sir, that's not good enough. Either you back off, or you spend some time in lockup. It's your choice."

"Look, Detective…"

"Wickes."

"Detective Wickes. I won't make any promises. Whatever happens, happens."

The two detectives looked at one another again, and Wickes sighed. "Have it your way, sir." They stood up and exited the room, leaving the Marine at the mercy of the guard who appeared to take him back to lockup.

* * *

"So what's the word on our gung-ho Marine?"

"He's gonna spend some time in lockup and cool off. Detectives don't think he's going to keep from singling out dealers."

Bosco laughed. "Aw, why not let him out? He shakes 'em up enough, maybe they'll move along to another area."

"Yeah right, Bos. It's a nice thought, though." Faith brought the RMP to a stop at a red light. "He sure got those two guys talking fast, though. They spilled to the detectives the first chance they got."

"Ha. A little retribution from the guy's brother broke 'em down? Sounds like a good tactic."

"No way, Bosco. We're not going around and beating on dealers for information."

"Aw, come on. It worked for our buddy Staples."

"No."

"You're no fun."

Faith smiled. "I do my best. Hey, what d'you say we go look for J.J.? He gets around. Maybe he knows something."

"J.J., huh? Yeah, we haven't seen him in awhile. Let's go pay him a visit."

* * *

Wickes and his partner ducked under the crime scene tape still tied across the alley where Keith Staples had been found. They were searching for something, anything, that would give them a line on whoever had killed the drug dealer. As unlikely as the prospect was that the CS guys had missed anything, the two detectives went back over the scene carefully anyway. There was always a chance.

Wickes' partner crouched by what was left of the dried puddle of blood, his white-gloved hands probing a pile of trash against the brick wall. "There's nothing here, Dave. CS cleaned up pretty good."

"Keep looking." Wickes hauled himself up onto a Dumpster and peered inside. Nothing inside but garbage. Smelly garbage at that. The detective wrinkled his nose. The only thing worse than the stench of dead bodies was rotting garbage. "Whew! Good thing I haven't eaten in awhile."

His partner chuckled. "That'll teach you to play in the Dumpster."

Wickes hopped down from the Dumpster, shaking his head. "Ugh. Some people are real wasteful. Hey, what's this?" He knelt to pick up a small brown paper bag nestled, almost out of sight, against the Dumpster.

"Whatcha got?" Asheby, his partner, asked as he ambled over. The two detectives stared at the contents of the bag, which Wickes had dumped into his hand. Over half a dozen little packets of white powder rested in the detective's gloved palm. Asheby whistled. "Well! How did we miss you, beautiful?"

Wickes stuffed the packets back into the paper bag. "I think we ought to go have a chat with the boys at the lab. They'll want to have a look at this."

* * *

"It's Ecstasy, all right." The lab tech said tiredly, handing over the print out to the two detectives. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a pile of other work to get back to."

"Thanks." Wickes and Asheby nodded at the tech's back. "Nice guy."

"Hey, we made him bump this stuff up his priority list. I can't blame him for being irritated."

"They really need more techs down here."

"You think? C'mon, we've got some fingerprints to run by our buddy Don." Asheby smiled at a dark-haired man who watched them approach his computer station with understandable wariness.

"I've got a list of prints to run longer than my arm, fellas. It'll be awhile before I get to yours."

"Take your time, Don. Thanks." Wickes placed the evidence bag on top of the stack of folders on the tech's desk. "Let us know when you get a match."

* * *

"Hey, Benny!"

One look out the car window was sufficient to convince the detective to hop out onto the pavement. His partner was already gone, putting his overly-long legs to good use. Their quarry had nearly a half a block's lead on them, but there was no chance of the man getting away today. Asheby was too fast and too determined to catch him. People on the sidewalk jumped to get out of the way of the two running men, some calling out their disgust as they tumbled into someone else. Wickes panted after his partner, yelling uselessly after him. He staggered to a halt on the curb and bent over, bracing his palms on his knees. He wasn't cut out for the whole running thing.

"You gonna make it, sir?"

Wickes managed to nod a response, wheezing painfully.

"You sure?"

"Yeah." He gathered his wind enough to glance up at his interrogator. "I'm fine."

The officer nodded once. "If you say so." He started to walk away.

"Officer, you on a foot beat?"

"Yeah. Have been for a couple of years."

"Oh." Wickes felt disappointed. Having an RMP nearby would be a tremendous boon. He wasn't thrilled about walking three blocks back to get the unmarked he and Asheby were using.

"Is there a problem, sir?" The officer asked again, studying Wickes' reddened cheeks curiously. _The attention of experience,_ the detective thought.

"No problem."

"C'mon, you scumbag. Let's move it." Asheby shoved his prisoner onto the sidewalk, ignoring the blaring horns that marked his passage across the busy street. His eyes danced as he jerked the handcuffed man to a stop. "Not a bad run for a junkie like you, Benny. You been keepin' in shape in Rikers, huh?"

The dealer he addressed glared down at his sneakers and didn't respond. Wickes shook his head. "Hey, Benny, you miss us? It hasn't been the same without you around."

"Up yours, man."

"Take it easy, cowboy. It's a long walk back to our car."

"Are you sure this fine gentleman should have to walk? There's a horse and carriage right around the corner that would be more suited to his status." The officer said with a grin. Wickes laughed.

"And there's tea waiting, too."

Asheby smirked at the unfortunate dealer. "See what you missed when you were away, Benny? How could you _not_ want to be back?"

"I'll call up an RMP." The officer turned away to make the call.

"This must be your lucky day, Benny boy. You won't have to walk after all."

"Man, what you want me for, anyway? I ain't been doin' nothing."

"Uh-huh, sure thing. We just picked you outta the crowd 'cause we don't have anything better to do." Asheby leaned against a streetlight pole. "You're the news man. You know what goes down out here. So tell us something. What happened three days ago?"

"Nothin' happened."

"Come on, Benny. Something went down Friday, and you know what it was. You might as well spill now."

"I don't know nothin'."

The two detectives looked at each other. "Okay. Have it your way. We'll leave you with Keith Staples' brother down in lockup for a couple of hours and see how you fare. Come on." Wickes grabbed Benny's arm and guided him over to the RMP that had pulled up to the curb.

* * *

Andrew O'Shea watched the RMP slide back into traffic, its lone prisoner looking sullen. He felt no pity or remorse for the unlucky devil. If he was dumb enough to run from the two detectives waving after the cruiser, then he deserved the seat behind the cage. The officer adjusted his gunbelt on his narrow hips, shifting the weight more comfortably. There was enough crap on the belt to weigh anyone down. Back when he first joined the force, officers were given a badge, a gun, a nightstick, handcuffs, and maybe a blackjack. That was it. Nowadays, you had to carry those things – except the blackjack, which he missed from time to time – plus pepper spray, a radio, extra magazines, and a flashlight. He had never used the pepper spray and only rarely drew his gun. There weren't many situations he couldn't resolve with just his wit, his mouth, and his baton.

"Thanks for your help, Officer."

O'Shea nodded. "Not a problem, boys. I'm gettin' too old to be chasing these lads down anyway."

The detectives chuckled and went on their way. O'Shea gave his gunbelt one final tug before turning back to his interrupted patrol. There were plenty of things to do out here. He couldn't afford to be standing around.

His radio squawked with alert tones, and he grimaced. MVA at an intersection two blocks over. Just his luck to be the closest officer. "Five-Five Edward Foot, en route." He drawled in his light accent, forcing himself to run.

"Oh crap."

The RMP that had been carrying the captured dealer had its hood buried under a large truck. Horns were blaring all around at this unexpected delay, drivers clearly not aware that two officers were pinned inside their cruiser. O'Shea sprinted the last few yards and leaped onto the trunk of the vehicle to get around to the driver's side.

"Talk to me, lads! Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." The driver said, shaking his head. "Check my partner."

O'Shea glanced across the seats. "What about you?"

"My leg's stuck."

"Can you feel it?"

The officer winced. "Yeah."

"Good." O'Shea stepped back and reached for his radio. "Five-Five Edward Footto Central, 10-13, request EMS and Fire to this location for assistance. Officer trapped in the vehicle."

The dispatcher's voice sounded tight. "Ten-four,Eddie Foot.EMS and Fire rolling."

"Help's comin'."

"Did you ask 'em to bring coffee?" The trapped officer asked through gritted teeth. "I haven't had a cup yet today."

O'Shea chuckled uneasily. "I'll get you one myself once you're outta there." He reached through the open window to turn off the engine.

"Hey, what about me?"

"What about you?"

The dealer in the backseat shot him a surly look. "I'm in here too!"

"Aye, and unharmed. We'll worry about you later." O'Shea replied. "What happened, anyway?"

"Truck ran the red light. I didn't see him until we were right underneath him." The driver rested his head back against the seat. "Man, my neck hurts."

"Don't move it. I hear the bus comin' anyway."

"Can I get out?"

"Shut up," O'Shea snapped. "You're not goin' anywhere until another unit gets here."

Benny the dealer scowled and flopped onto his back. He lashed out at the window with both feet, kicking as hard as he could. The glass cracked, buckled, then gave way. "I ain't goin' back to jail!"

"Hey, knock it off!" O'Shea grabbed for Benny's feet and received a kick in the face for his pains. Stunned and on the ground, he squeezed his eyes shut to block out the stars from his vision. Benny twisted himself around on the seat and somehow slithered through the broken window. He fell out onto his back amid the pieces of broken glass.

"Andy!" The driver cried, as Benny rolled onto his knees.

O'Shea lurched to his feet just seconds after the dealer, his cheek and forehead smarting. "C'mere!" He grabbed the back of Benny's sweatshirt and threw him down. The dealer swore as his manacled hands were squashed underneath him. O'Shea hit him once, then twice, before dragging him back to his feet and flinging the would-be escapee back against the cruiser. "Get up there."

Paramedics and firefighters were on-scene, sizing up the situation and gathering equipment. Another RMP arrived, allowing O'Shea to offload his prisoner. Benny spat on the ground, earning him a solid cuff around the ear. "Get in the bloody car and behave yourself, ya worthless trash."

"Back again, Benny?" Once of the newly-arrived officers asked, as the cruiser backed up and turned around. O'Shea grinned and then winced. He realised that his whole face felt like it was on fire. It was probably a good idea to grab one of the paramedics before they all disappeared.

He was getting too old for this.


	10. Chipping Away

No mini-essay for this one. I'll pick it up again in the next chapter, if anybody wants me to. This chapter will be relatively short. It will be awhile before I can chapter again, so be patient with me. I'll be writing more chapters while I'm offline, so I can update more often.

Thanks for the reviews, too. They're much appreciated.

* * *

Bosco and Faith are back.

* * *

The hat in her hand felt like it weighed fifteen pounds. Her other hand gripped the back of the hard plastic seat, her knuckles turning white. At the other end of the room, Sergeant Christopher was delivering the standard pre-shift briefing. She didn't hear a word he was saying. Her mind was on vastly different things. Word had spread through the station house about Malloy and Turner the day before. Turner would be out for at least a week due to his leg and Malloy was expected back within two days. The idiot trucker who'd run the red light was cooling his heels in lockup alongside the Marine.

Things were happening too fast. Between the arrests that she and Bosco, the two detectives assigned to the case, and Andy O'Shea had made, the cells at the back of the station house were filling up. The last guy, Benny, had a nice shiner on his right eye. O'Shea must've gotten after him for something. He was in talking to the two detectives the last she knew. Was that why Christopher just kept talking?

"Yokas."

She looked up at once, startled to hear her name. Sergeant Christopher frowned at her, a mug-shot picture in one hand.

"See me after."

Her face flushed hot. She never spaced out during roll call. That was Bosco's department. The other officers shifted uncomfortably around her, unused to hearing the more sensible half ofFive-FiveDavid get called out for an after-roll conference. Bosco smirked to himself, grateful that for once, he wasn't the one in trouble.

The room stirred to life, but Faith saw none of it. She stood up and walked to the door, where she knew Christopher would be waiting. Her partner brushed past, and the self-satisfied smirk on his face startled her back from the daze that clouded her senses. _You just enjoy it while it lasts, Bos._

"Yokas."

"Yes sir."

Christopher thrust out a paper at her. "This is one of the guys the informant gave up. Well-placed local dealer. Do your best to bag him." He turned on his heel and walked off to his desk.

"Yes sir." Faith muttered, confused by the lack of rebuke for not paying attention. She looked down at the mug-shot she held and smiled a little. She and Bosco had dealt with this guy before. It would be fun to rattle his cage for old time's sake.

* * *

"Tell us about Big T."

Benny leant back in the metal chair, his expression surly. "I already told you all I'm gonna. You got Jo-Jo and Bulldog. What more do you want?"

"They're just street level dealers. What can they tell us that's any different from what you've told us?" Wickes asked. "We want the guy who's behind this murder. It sure isn't anybody you've mentioned."

"And we're still waiting to hear what you know about Friday night." Asheby chimed in.

"I ain't tellin' you."

"Come on, Benny. It's not like we _don't_ know what happened. We're interested to know what _you_ know."

The dealer looked sceptical. "You ain't got nobody who's in on that, I'd know about it."

"Exactly! That's why we like you, Benny. You know things." Asheby said. "We know things too. There was a footprint found at the scene. The techs working to find out what brand of shoe made it, and from there we just need to grab somebody to check their shoes against it. We'll pick up every dealer and user in the city if we have to, and I'm sure your buddies won't like that very much."

"All you have to do is tell us what you know about Friday night, and we won't scare away too much business."

Benny looked from one detective to the other, his surliness slipping away. "If I talk, I get to walk, right?"

"Free and clear."

"Fine. It was two new guys out for Big T. Just picked up a couple packages for him. Your guy Staples comes along, they decide to jump him for some money, but he ain't got any. They fight, and one of the new guys stabs him in the back. They drag him to the alley and take off, scared like little girls. Ain't seen 'em around since 'cause they left Big T's packages behind." Benny sneered. "Them new guys ain't worth crap."

"Who were these new guys?"

"Don't know. They just started runnin' last week."

"Where are they now?"

"Don't know. Bet they're wishin' for the cops to find 'em before Big T does. He don't like gettin' stiffed that way."

* * *

"I think we got a problem."

"That doesn't sound good."

"It's not." Wickes rubbed his eyes. "Benny's story makes sense, except that we forgot to ask him about Mikey Boscorelli."

Asheby's face paled. "The guy whose brother works the night shift?"

"That's the one. He knew Staples and he probably knows some things too. But since his brother got him out, he's disappeared."

"Dammit. And I thought we had everything nailed after feeding him the line about the shoe print."

"Looks we need to do some more asking around." Wickes said, standing up from his desk. "So much for not scaring away business."

"What's the worst that can happen? This Big T isn't really that high-up on the ladder."

"Yeah, but he still knows people. I wouldn't be surprised if all our informants dry up real fast."

* * *

The traffic light glowed orange for only a few seconds before flickering and changing to red. As if someone had drawn an invisible line across that lane of travel, the line of cars stopped dead.

"Are we going to hit _every red light_ in the city today!" Bosco exclaimed, his fingers choking the steering wheel.

"Relax, Bosco. This is a short light."

The light cycled back to green and Bosco pressed down on the gas hard. His partner turned the siren back on as the cruiser leapt out into the intersection. Cars ahead of the fast-moving RMP pulled over to get out of the way.

"There it is." Faith pointed at the burning wreck smashed against the bridge guardrail. "What a mess."

"Damn."

The two officers hustled over to the growing crowd, who watched the paramedics and firefighters work with practised precision. "Step back, folks, way back." Sully and Davis were on-scene and busily herding people back from the flames.

"What the hell happened here?"

"Drunk hit an elderly man. That's the old guy's car." Sully pointed at the burning vehicle. "Paramedics pulled him out just before it went up."

"Somebody must like him a lot."

"Yeah."

Faith turned away from the wreck to push some people back further away from the fire. The other three officers joined her after a few moments of watching the flames consume the metal frame of the vehicle. Senseless accidents like this one never failed to move her. She remembered arresting Fred when he had gotten into his accident. One of the hardest things she'd ever had to do, but she did it anyway. He had pleaded with her to bail him out when she and Bosco brought it another collar and she had ignored him. She remembered thinking that a few hours staring out the bars of that cell would serve him right.

"Hey, Yokas."

"Hmm?"

"Let's go. Just got a call from O'Shea. He's got a brawl down on FDR."

The two officers sprinted through the crowd of people to get back to their RMP. Once again, the sirens came wailing to life. Bosco guided the cruiser skilfully through traffic.

"Five-Five David, FDR."

"Ten-four, David."

"Slow down, Bosco!"

"O'Shea can't handle a brawl on his own."

"He's been around long enough, I don't see why – "

"He's in trouble, we help. That's it."

Her partner brought the cruiser to a screeching halt as a flying body tumbled across the hood. In an instant, both officers were out of the vehicle. O'Shea was wrestling with a heavy-set man who was bent on not getting arrested. Several other men were throwing punches at each other, intent only on doing damage.

"Knock it off! Break it up!" Bosco dove into the fight with an energy that startled Faith. Simple restraint wasn't the object today. He was out for blood. One of the men took a wild swing that caught Bosco in the ear.

"Bosco!"

"C'mere jag-off." Her partner grabbed the man's jacket and threw him down. "You, never, hit, a, cop." Bosco grunted, delivering a blow to punctuate each word.

"Bosco!" Faith moved in quickly to pull her partner back. "Lay off!"

O'Shea staggered over, nursing his left eye. His dark hair was tousled, his uniform was dirty, and there was a thin trickle of blood leaking out of his nose. The man he had been fighting with lay on his side on the ground, his wrists cuffed securely behind his back. "Thanks for the assist, mates. Bit worried there for a moment."

"Anytime. Glad to grab action when it comes." Bosco stood up, his chest still heaving. The older cop looked at his reddened face and nodded.

"Aye, you're young yet. You'll learn."

"What is there to learn? The whole point of the job is to bust the bad guys."

O'Shea shook his head and winced. "No, the whole point of the job is to serve and protect the public and look out for your fellows. That's what this means." He fingered the badge on Bosco's jacket. "You'll learn before too many years go by, Boscorelli. I just hope it won't take anything drastic."

"What an old duffer." Bosco watched the older cop returned to the man he had arrested and dragged him to his feet. "What does he know?"

"A whole lot more than you do." Faith replied simply.

"You wouldn't know it," her partner muttered, but he didn't sound as cocky.

"Come on. This guy needs to get to lockup."


	11. The Trouble Begins

Again, no mini-essay for this one. Until I find my CJ books, I'm a little short on my sources. The stuff in my head is far from sufficient at the moment.

* * *

Ready for a little twist?

* * *

"How long have we been sitting here?"

Faith ignored him. The guy whose mug-shot had been handed out at roll call was known to hang around this area. It wasn't a bad guess to think he would go right back to his old stomping grounds. There were people everywhere, making it difficult to see individual faces.

"We could just have Sully and Davis pick him up."

"They're back at the house clearing up some of their paperwork. We can handle this one ourselves anyway."

Her partner made a face and looked out the window at something insignificant. "I still think we're wasting our time."

Faith didn't bother to respond. Her attention was focussed on a guy in a hooded sweatshirt just then sauntering out of the bar they were watching. "There, that's him."

"Do we have to? He's just a street-level dealer."

"Stay in the car, then, I don't care."

With a grunt, Bosco heaved himself out of the vehicle after her. "You know he's gonna run the second he sees us."

"Then we'll just chase him."

"Wonderful."

The two officers closed the distance between them and their quarry. Faith cast a glance at her partner, who took the hint and moved immediately on a tangent, quickly drawing even with their intended prey.

"Hey, Dominic. C'mere."

At the sight of Bosco striding through the crowd toward him, Dominic bolted to his right – straight into Faith's waiting arms. She grabbed the unfortunate dealer and swiftly restrained him before he knew who he'd run into.

"Good morning to you too."

* * *

Wickes and Asheby grinned at the two officers escorting a sullen-faced prisoner through the station house. One of them, the female, grinned back as the procession passed the detectives' desks.

"Got another one for you guys to break down."

"Oh good. Fresh meat." Asheby said, rubbing his hands together. "Best make sure the blood has been cleaned up off the floor in there before you drop him off."

His comment drew a smile from the male officer, who was standing guard over the prisoner whilst his partner signed the log. "What, the bucketboys didn't loan you a hose to do the job yourselves?"

"We couldn't be so lucky." Wickes laughed at the ashen expression on the prisoner's face. "Buck up, lad, if there's anything left, a little bit of elbow grease will take care of it right away. You do know how to use a sponge, don't you?"

"That ain't funny." The prisoner muttered as the two officers led him toward the interrogation room.

"Sure it is," Asheby replied, pulling his notebook out of his jacket. "C'mon, let's see what this one has to say."

* * *

The wailing chorus of sirens shattered the abrupt stillness that had fallen over the schoolyard. Groups of teachers and kids stood around in numb shock, staring down at the bullet-riddled bodies sprawled on the pavement. A still-warm Beretta lay on the ground several feet away from the carnage, kept company by the scattering of brass casings around it.

Five-Five David screeched to a halt outside the chain-link fence and its two officers bounded out immediately. The day-shift officer who wasFive-Five Edward Foot came flying into view, arriving only seconds after the cruiser. Together, the three officers fanned out quickly into the schoolyard, making sure that it was safe for them to approach the blood-soaked bodies.

"What happened here?" Faith demanded of the nearest person.

"I don't know. I just heard some shots."

"How many?"

"Six or seven, I think. They, they were fast."

"Anybody here see what happened?"

A tall, gangly kid in a Yankees jersey raised his hand timidly. "A guy came into the yard. These two talked to him, like they knew him, y'know? Then the first guy pulls out a gun and started shooting."

"Did you get a look at the shooter's face?"

The kid shook his head. "He was wearing a hoody and a ball cap."

"Hey, Yokas." O'Shea called. "Come look at this."

Faith joined the two other officers by the bodies. O'Shea pointed at the one who was lying on his stomach.

"He look familiar to you?"

"It's Benny." She said in disbelief.

O'Shea nodded grimly. "Aye. Looks like somebody's taken note of his talkin' to us so much."

"Outta the way, comin' through!" Doc and Carlos came running into the yard, their heavy medics' bags slung over their shoulders.

"Don't think there's much you can do for these two," O'Shea commented, straightening up from his crouch. "I've seen doornails look livelier."

Doc quickly checked both bodies before nodding in agreement with the officer's statement. "Guess we should break out the bags, then."

"Detectives are on the way." Faith reported. "Sounds like they might have something to tie all this together."

"That'd be a first," Bosco muttered, casting one final glance at the lifeless dealers on the ground before moving back toward the cruiser parked on the curb.

* * *

"Yokas, Boscorelli, O'Shea. Detectives want to talk to you."

The trio broke up their huddle at the fender of the RMP to amble over. Wickes and Asheby nodded their thanks at Christopher as they headed toward the approaching officers.

"Got some news you might find interesting." Wickes said by way of preamble.

"The guy Yokas and Boscorelli collared had something fresh to tell us, once we got him talking. Seems that there's a new big-wig in town who likes to run a tight ship. The two skels who did for Staples worked for him albeit indirectly. Staples, Mikey Boscorelli, Benny, and Dominic do too. Did, anyway, in Staples' and Benny's case." Asheby said. "It seems that the trucker who flattened Malloy's RMP is also on this fellow's payroll, according to Dominic and some others we've spoken to. The whole objective of the accident was to get Benny to shut up, which didn't work out that way."

"At least not that time," Bosco interrupted.

"Lucky for us, not for Benny. Anyway, our buddy Dominic says that this new boss is intent on tying up all loose ends that have cropped up since Staples bought it. Word has it that he's having a helluva time finding your brother, Boscorelli, and one or two others who have vanished from the street. Of course, it's only a matter of time before they surface again – they have to feed their habits, after all. We'd prefer to be the first ones to grab them when they do show up again, as we can see what happens when the boss finds them first." Wickes said, gesturing over at the mess in the schoolyard. "Lieutenant Swersky will circulate pictures and descriptions of each of the MIAs tomorrow, but everyone who has had prior contact is being alerted now."

"We're having a hard time digging up people who are willing to talk, and it will be near impossible now. It's fairly safe to say that our street informants are gone. We'll have to rely on you guys on the beat for our information." Asheby continued. "ACU is gonna get called in on this one, they're pretty good at the undercover thing. Narcotics is loaning a couple officers, too. Guess the powers-that-be have given this one a high priority. Pressure's on, whether we like it or not."

"Watch your backs out there. We don't know how this new boss will react to our presence." Wickes added. "We sure don't want to see the plastic wrap get pulled off more body bags."

"Got it," O'Shea said as the two detectives retraced their steps back toward the crime scene. "Must be important to somebody to call in ACU and Narcotics."

"As long as they stay outta the way." Bosco murmured.

* * *

The lean detective dropped into his chair and sighed into his palms. The oversize coffee mug on the desk and his shirtsleeves long since rolled up past his elbows gave away his resignation to another long night at the office. There was a pile of folders and papers cluttered on the surface of the desk, demanding his attention. Attention he wasn't willing to give them.

"Dammit," he muttered to himself, leaning back in the chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. The images of the crime scene he and his partner had just come back from were dancing around his head, taunting him with the current lack of evidence about who the hell was behind all this. All they had was the Beretta found near the bodies. Hardly enough to go on until the lab techs took a look at it. Figures that so much again depended on the lab techs. _Poor bastards,_ he thought as he stood up wearily, coffee mug in hand. _So much to run through the whole list of tests and not enough guys to do it._

His partner wandered in from the sergeants' office and tossed a folder unceremoniously onto his desk. "CS is just about finished at the scene. It'll be a few hours at least before we get the benefit of their reports and photos."

"Great. So what do we do whilst we wait? Twiddle our thumbs?"

"We couldn't be so lucky. I have here," Wickes indicated the folder he had brought in, "a list of names that our buddy Dominic gave us, which turns out to be more than what Benny gave up. With that, I also have some reports sent over from BCI on nearly all of them. Seems our buddy Dominic hangs with some real angels."

Asheby reached for the folder. "Hardly surprising, really. But why'd he turn 'em all over to us? That's just asking for trouble."

"He's under the gun from Narcotics on a couple heavy charges. Whilst you were out of the room, I agreed to speak to them about the _possibility_ of cutting a deal."

"And are you?"

"I'll run it by whoever's handling his case. No promises, though."

"Works for me." Asheby leafed through the contents of the folder. "What do we know about this Big T?"

"Aside from the fact that he's apparently running the show in Manhattan? Not much. He's still too new to the game, at least according to Narcotics. I think they're too concerned about us screwing their operations to help a whole lot."

"And that means they can deny us assistance in an open homicide investigation?"

Wickes shrugged. "Their game, their rules."

"Yeah, but this is _our_ game. They should be willing to share _something_." Asheby protested. "Who's the guy in charge over there?"

"Tony Scalioni. Big Italian guy. Know him from the Two-Seven. Odds are fifty-fifty that he'll break out his case files for us."

"That bad? You said you know him.."

"Yeah I know him. That doesn't mean he's gonna pull strings for me. He runs his own shift." Wickes dug around in a desk drawer for a long-lost Snickers bar. "It won't hurt to ask him, but we better be prepared to roll up our own sleeves to find out what we want to know."

"Haven't we been doing that all along?" Asheby asked, not looking up from the report he was taking notes from. "Look how far it's gotten us."

"Point taken. I'll call Tony."

* * *

"Ready for this?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," Faith replied, her right hand resting on the butt of her gun. Her partner nodded and tightened his grip on his own weapon. The two officers exchanged transparently confident glances as the ESU team formed up around them.

"Ready?" The team sergeant hissed. Faith shot her partner a look over the hunched back of the entry man huddled behind his shield. Bosco nodded mutely, knowing everything that the look told him without having to hear it in words.

"Go!"

The short battering ram swung forward, knocking in the door with careless ease. As soon as the splintered remains of the door were out of the way, the entry man charged in, covered by two officers with shotguns. Bosco and Faith followed the second pair in, guns now drawn. The room was filled with armed and shouting officers. Everyone in the room froze in surprise and fear at the muzzles of the weapons suddenly shoved in their faces. One man raised his hands slowly, reluctantly, as an officer stepped forward to grab the pistol from his waistband.

Faith, Bosco, and two ESU officers had moved into a room adjacent to the main room. There was nobody inside, but there had been. Rumpled bedsheets and two full ashtrays that were still giving off light wisps of smoke meant that someone had been here. Someone had definitely left this room in a hurry.

"Clear!"

The one-word announcement was echoed by two other officers as they secured the remaining rooms of the small apartment. Faith breathed a sigh of relief as she lowered her gun to her side. The less eventful a shift was, the better.

"It's okay, Detectives." The team sergeant said to the waiting men in the hallway.

Wickes and Asheby entered, slipping Latex gloves onto their hands. Asheby already had evidence bags ready. "Line 'em up."

With remarkable compliance, the group of captured drug-heads lined up in the middle of the room. Wickes nodded at the team sergeant, who waved two officers forward. Without a word, the two so summoned and the detectives went from person to person, carefully and thoroughly patting each one down.

"You think they'll find anything?"

"Let's hope so. I'd hate to think we're wasting our time here."

Asheby drew one of the users forward. "Cuff him." Seconds later, his partner did the same. Slightly baffled, the two ESU officers attempted to mimic the detectives, but Wickes shook his head.

"This one, and that one there." He corrected, pointing out the ones he was referring to. "Send the rest straight to lockup. These four are coming with us. The paddy wagon should be here by now."

"Yessir." The team sergeant said. "Get 'em in irons and downstairs."

"Guess that means we're outta here." Bosco said, holstering his gun and fastening the strap.

"Not so fast, Officers. We're gonna need some help getting these winners back to the house."

Bosco rolled his eyes and groaned. "Do we have to?"

"We're on it," Faith told Wickes, ignoring yet again her partner's whining. "Are we any closer to figuring out who killed Staples?"

"We're working on it," Asheby said.

"His brother is getting out tomorrow. We can't hold him more than seventy-two hours so he's a free man again as of 5:30 tomorrow evening."

"Great. That means he can scare away even more informants."

"We'll just have to get as much out of them as we can before he hits the streets. Any ideas?"

"Shake down the guys we know of around Fifth Avenue. There's bound to be some nuggets down there somewhere. The trick is findin' 'em."

"Good plan, Bosco, and what do you propose we do _after_ driving off everybody who might have talked to us?"

"Start bustin' heads."

Wickes chuckled ruefully. "If only it were that easy, Boscorelli."

"The most we can really do at the moment is simply patrol and keep our eyes open. Until we get some of these jokers to crack, there's nothing else we can do. The DA would have all our shields if we went on a witch-hunt." Asheby said. "As much as I would love to knock down doors and keep a steady parade of unlucky souls headin' for lockup, we can't do squat without warrants."

"And we just used up our only probable cause getting this one. The ball's back in your court, guys." Wickes added glumly. "This has gotten a whole lot more complicated than a druggie's murder. What happened to the days when a guy getting stabbed on the street was just that?"

Faith attempted a grin. "They're alive and well in Hollywood, I hear."

The two detectives smiled wearily as they followed the last of the prisoners from the apartment. With the adrenaline-induced energy of the raid draining quickly from them, Bosco and Faith took a final, cursory glance around the room. Without a word, they shuffled across the worn carpet to get to the hallway. It was time to get back to work.


	12. 10 13

An "officer down" call is the one thing no officer wants to hear over the radio.

* * *

"Good to see ya back out here, Malloy. Ain't been the same without you."

The red-haired officer grinned, buttoning his shirt over his vest. "Good to be back. I've been goin' crazy at home."

"I know the feelin'." O'Shea said. "How's Turner doing, anyway?"

"He's gettin' better. Doc says he'll be clear for duty at the end of the week."

"Good for him. Always fun to have the rookies come back to visit."

Both officers chuckled. O'Shea worked the slide of his duty gun, grinning slightly at the metallic click of a bullet racking into the chamber. "You up for a round or two after shift? Sort of a, "welcome home" celebration."

"The usual place, right?"

"Aye, the same. Best Guinness in the City right there."

"You drink too much, Andy."

O'Shea shrugged. "What's an Irishman's son supposed to do? Drink water?"

"Good point." Malloy admitted as he fastened the buckle of his gunbelt. "Think we'll need our batons today?"

"More'n bloody likely. Scuttlebutt has it that Lieu wants us to be 'pro-active' today, whatever the hell that means."

Malloy snorted. "Wonderful. First day back and we get to go out and shake down dealers. 'Welcome back, Malloy, hope you're ready for a rough day.' "

"Aye. Hustle up, mate, we'll be late for roll."

* * *

A pair of old friends walked easily down 110th Street, gleaming silver shields adorning the front of their hats and jackets. Old-style batons swung with the rhythm of their footsteps, keeping time as precisely as a metronome. People smiled or nodded as the pair strolled past, recognising the gait and manner of two tried-and-tested cops.

"I've missed the foot beat since they saddled me with a new partner. Breakin' in rookies sure isn't my idea of 'good use of experience'." Malloy said, pausing to touch the brim of his hat as an elderly lady passed him. "I'd rather be out walkin' the old circuit with a guy I know has my back."

O'Shea blushed slightly. "Aw, whaddaya doin' that for, makin' an Irishman go red in his face?"

"What, you don't miss the old days yourself?"

"Aye, I do, but there's no need makin' an old lad's cheeks as red as the freckles on your face."

Malloy grinned. "You're only jealous you haven't any freckles of your own. Must be the Yankee in you. Your pa's got so many it's hard to tell when he's blushin' or not!"

"Go on, you. May the devil sit on your head!" O'Shea teased. "It's big enough!"

"You're one to talk, me old mate. At least one of us can admit it."

Sensing his friend's moment of victory, O'Shea bowed in mock surrender. "Well-said, young master. What shall your pleasure be?"

"Just a coffee down on the corner. You're a big fraud, O'Shea."

"At least one of us can admit it."

"Cheater!"

"A lie, sir, a lie!" O'Shea raised his right hand, index finger pointing skyward, his face perfectly straight. "The Irish never cheat." His blank expression held for a second or two, then cracked. Both officers shared a burst of laughter that turned heads their way.

"Good to have ya back walkin' the beat, Malloy. Ain't the same without the Irish duo out keepin' the Yanks in line."

* * *

Marine Gunnery Sergeant Staples nodded curtly at the detectives waiting for him on the station house side of the lockup desk, wordlessly retrieving his fore-and-aft cap, wallet, and keys from the guard. He paused to look both detectives in the eye as he descended the three steps leading toward the bustling main floor of the station house.

"Stay out of trouble, Gunny," Wickes said.

"And watch out forFive-Five David." Asheby added.

Staples turned back, his heels clicking together. "Yes sir." The Marine nodded once, then relaxed and turned smartly on his heel.

Wickes shook his head at Staples' back as the other man picked his way across the house toward the door. "There goes one of the most squared-away jarheads I've had the pleasure of meeting."

"I'm sure you've met quite a few, too."

"Yeah, what can I say? The guys in my unit were the same way."

"Huh! You Marines always stick together."

"Why not? With Army children like you around, it's only smart to huddle up."

Asheby pressed a palm to his chest as though wounded. "Oh, the agony. _Touché, D'Artangon._" He grinned. "Seriously, though, I respect you Marines. I wasn't tough enough for the Corps."

"Whoa, hold on, there! A _soldier_ admitting he respects _Marines?_ Now I _have_ heard it all!"

* * *

"Malloy's back."

Bosco shifted the cruiser into park and unbuckled. "Already? He got whiplash from the accident, I thought."

"He's clear for duty and working this shift today." Faith replied, already out of the vehicle. "His old partner is pulling a double to walk the beat with him."

"There's dedication for you."

"Really. They were partners almost since they started, I think. Must be nice."

"What, to have worked together for so long?"

"No, to take a double just to work one shift with an old friend and partner."

The pair walked up the sidewalk toward the coffee shop they frequented. There were already familiar faces inside, lined up along the counter. Faith paused before pushing open the door to look over at Bosco.

"Would you do something like that?"

He stopped, confused by the question. "Do something like what?"

"Take a double just to work one shift with your partner. Would you?"

His eyes searched for a clue in her face, something that would suggest to him how to answer. There was nothing and he floundered for a plausible response. "Why?" The sheer pathetic delivery of the question was nothing but a reflex, an ingrained reaction to anything that even hinted at getting too personal.

Faith bit her lower lip and glanced down at the ground. She'd expected an answer like that. Why she even bothered sometimes was beyond her. It stung that he couldn't, for once, give her a straight answer and not some baloney run-around. _Serves me right for asking in the first place._ As she pushed the door inward, triggering the merry jingle of the bell over the threshold, she looked at him again. "Because I would."

Bosco remained frozen on the sidewalk as the door swung shut. _Because I would._ Of course she would. That was the type of person she was. Once again, she'd shown him precisely how big a fool he was._ Why?_ What the hell kind of answer was that to the loaded question she had thrown at him? For once, why couldn't he simply say something that wasn't utterly moronic? He scowled to himself and shoved through the coffee shop door, more irritated at himself than he'd been in awhile.

So much for a good day.

* * *

"Hey, the Irish duo returns!"

Malloy and O'Shea grinned at the officer manning the desk as they marched a prisoner up. "Aye, and with a vengeance."

"Good. Been too quiet without you two roaming around and keeping the peace."

"I knew we were missed. Not many of the old guard are still around to help out, so someone's gotta do it."

The guard smiled and nodded. "True. What would you like, sir? We have a very nice single room available with a lovely view of the street. First night stay is complimentary, of course."

"Of course."

All three officers chuckled. The guard signed the log and slid the book across the desk for Malloy to sign as well. Whilst Malloy led the sullen-faced drunk to his cell, O'Shea descended the steps to the chaos of the detectives' area and claimed an empty desk to start knocking off some paperwork. Always the bane of a street officer's existence, reports were the most hated and neglected aspect of the job. O'Shea settled into the cracked leather chair, leaning back a bit to cause the springs to squeak in protest. With a slight, amused grin, he fished a pen from the desk drawer and shuffled through the forms he had grabbed from the desk sergeant. First up, arrest report. Always the most fun.

"Hey, O'Shea. You gonna be here awhile?"

"Aye, for a bit. Somebody's gotta write these bloody things up."

Malloy flashed his old friend a grin. "Make sure you keep those out, I'll need 'em to remember what happened."

"Go on, you." O'Shea shook his head. "I'll not be long. Meetcha down in front of McCray's."

"The old market down on 110th?"

"Aye, that's the one. About fifteen minutes or so, I think."

"That all? You've gotten pretty good at that paperwork thing. Sure you don't want to try for sergeant?" Malloy laughed and ducked the crumpled paper ball that O'Shea chucked across the busy station house floor.

"Hey! Keep the paper on the desk where it belongs!" The desk sergeant called.

"That's me cue, be seein' you later, then."

"Aye. Watch for traffic."

"Yes Mother."

"And don't talk to strangers!"

The detectives who weren't on the phone joined O'Shea in a chuckle as Malloy beat a hasty retreat from the station house. With a twinkle in his eye for the first time in too long, the patrol officer swivelled the chair back around and bent over the reports on the desk.

* * *

Uncomfortable silence filled the air inside the cruiser as it travelled down 116th Street, moving with the ebb and flow of traffic. Faith kept her gaze out the passenger window, stubbornly ignoring the occasional glance from her partner. There was little to be said, she thought, that had not already been said. She couldn't wait for the shift to be over so she could go home to her kids and Fred. _Please stop looking at me, Bosco._ She thought, irritated, aware that he was judging her mood, waiting for the right moment to break the silence.

"Yokas."

_There he goes._ She didn't bother to respond. _Let him stew on it a little._

Bosco let out a heavy sigh and adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. "Look, what I said earlier, it wasn't what I meant to say. It was – "

"Dumb?" Faith finished for him. "You're damn right it was. You always do that. I ask you something that's even _remotely_ personal and you clam right up. It gets old real fast, Bosco, talking about stuff and you not able to open up back."

"And you think I don't try? It's not easy!"

"It's not supposed to be! If it was, every Tom, Dick, and Harry would be spilling their guts to us. It takes trust, it takes a good friend to feel comfortable enough for that. Why do you think – oh never mind. I don't know why I bother."

"What? Why do I think what?"

"Forget it, it's not worth it."

"Fine."

Silence crept over the vehicle again, even more tense and clinging than before. Faith was annoyed at herself for even trying to explain trust to Bosco. The guy didn't trust anyone but himself when it came down to it. In a way, she couldn't fault that. All his life, he'd only had himself to rely on. Why change now, even though there were people he could trust and rely on?

"Bosco – "

The radio crackled to life with the dispatcher's strained voice. Both officers' faces went chalk-white and they locked eyes, a mutually terrified and shocked glance passing from one to the other. Faith reached at once for the console between the seats whilst her partner leaned heavily on the gas. Over the radio, the dispatcher tersely repeated the grim message, causing Bosco's foot to press down more on the gas pedal.

"All units of the Five-Five. 10-13, 10-13, corner of 1st and 110th. Shots fired. Officer down, repeat, _officer down._"

* * *

Every radio in the station house came alive at the same moment with the grim message. All movement came to a halt as people paused to listen in disbelief. No one spoke for long seconds after the dispatcher finished speaking, too numbed to comprehend what just been said. Then, from a desk in the detectives' corner of the station house, a quavering, accented voice shattered the stillness.

"Malloy!" A dark-haired officer leapt to his feet, the reports he had been writing forgotten. He grabbed his hat, vaulted over the railing that ran along the raised section of the house, and hit the floor running. People moved aside to let him through. Nobody who knew him had ever seen him that wild-eyed. It was best to get out of his way.

"Five-Five Edward Foot, 1st and 110th. ETA as fast as I can bloody well run!"

"Ten-four, Eddie Foot."

* * *

Five-FiveDavid bumped roughly over the curb and braked to a hard stop. Its two occupants bounded out of the vehicle at once. There was no time to waste. The two officers approached the scene swiftly, white-knuckled fingers gripped around their weapons. More backup was on the way but they couldn't wait. They were Malloy's only hope.

"Malloy!"

The crowd of people around the scene was astonishing. Breathless, stunned silence hung over the spot as the pair shoved their way through. People stepped aside to let them through. A disbelieving voice cried out, "He stopped two guys… they were talking, just fine… then…they just shot him!"

"Malloy!" Faith holstered her gun as she ran to the downed officer's side. "Luke!"

The man's eyes fluttered. "That you, O'Shea?"

"It's Yokas. Hang in there, Luke. Help's coming."

"It went through my vest! Stopped the first one but not the second. Bastards aimed dead on! How bad is it?"

Faith didn't dare look at the source of the crimson pool growing on the concrete. "You'll be fine. Stay with me, Luke."

"Tell me! Don't lie to me. O'Shea!" He tore at his side, at the Velcro straps that held his vest together. "Help me! Get it off! Get it off!"

"Luke, relax!" Faith grabbed his hand and squeezed it. "You're gonna be okay."

The other officer's chest heaved and more blood pumped around his hand as he pressed it against the wound. There was no colour left in his cheeks. His grip on her right hand was strong even though he fought to stay alive. She felt time slow down as she watched the other officer slowly bleed out in front of her. With her free hand, she pressed down on the wound. Maybe if she applied enough direct pressure, the bleeding would stop. The eyes of the crowd were fixed on them, a pair of nameless officers, one fighting valiantly to live and the other urging him to hang on.

"Help me! Please, help me." Malloy begged. "O'Shea! Where's my partner?"

"It's Yokas, O'Shea is on his way. Just calm down. Stay with me, Luke. You're gonna be okay."

Malloy's brown eyes were wild. "Yokas. I saw them. I saw them…" He gagged and gasped. _"O'Shea!"_

"Bosco, where's that bus?"

"55 David to Central, where in the hell is that bus?"

"Hold on Luke."

"Bus is two minutes out." Her partner said, standing back, unable to help and frustrated because of that.

"O'Shea!"

Faith could feel Malloy's blood pulsing around her fingers. It was a bad wound. The bullet had gone in right in the centre of his chest. There was so much blood. It had to have nicked an artery or his heart. Malloy closed his eyes and let out a gasping breath. His chest rose and fell frantically as he struggled to breathe. Sirens were drawing closer by the second, but too far away still. They would be very lucky to make it in time.

"Hang in there, Luke." Faith said, tightening her grip on his hand. Somehow, she knew he was slipping away. "They're almost here. Don't go to sleep. Talk to me!"

"Yokas… tell 'em I… tell 'em… I don't want to die!" Malloy grabbed the collar of her shirt and pulled her close. "Tell 'em for me… you have to." Tears, helpless tears, streamed down his face as his fingers dug into hers. "Promise me, Yokas! Tell 'em all… they need to know! Please!"

She blinked futilely, succeeding only in smearing tears across her eyelashes. Her ears barely registered the sirens that were wailing so close. Boots were pounding across the sidewalk to them. Probably the paramedics. They were there, shoving her away, breaking Malloy's grip on her shirt and hand. Malloy's desperate, rasping voice came again as he grabbed wildly for her jacket sleeve.

"No! Don't, Yokas! Don't leave me alone! I don't want to… Andy!" His strained features froze, his gasping breaths ceased. The strength of his grip on her sleeve eased and his hand fell away. She saw it in slow motion, dropping to the ground to lay there, unmoving.

"No." Faith bowed her head low, her tears bitter and angry. Each heavy drop rolled lazily down her nose to fall and splash against Malloy's colourless face. She couldn't stop the choked sobs that rose from somewhere deep inside. Her face felt numb from the river of tears. Nothing was real, nothing was important. Nothing but the guilt and the grief. His last desperate plea echoed endlessly in her ears, the same final request she would beg of the officer who was there, by her side, were she to lay there as he had. She would tell them.

"Faith?" Her partner's hands were on her shoulders, his voice low and gentle. "The detectives are here."

"He's gone." She whispered, lifting her face to look at him. "He's gone."

Bosco's features reflected his sorrow and concern. "Come on, Faith. Let's go."

Faith lowered her gaze to Malloy's unseeing eyes. She reached over and gently smoothed his eyelids closed. "Okay."


	13. Pain and Comfort

I haven't seen enough of the relationship between Faith and Fred, or Fred and Bosco, to know how to stay IC with this chapter, but I gave it my best shot. My apologies for anything that goes too OOC.

To everyone who has reviewed, thank you. The feedback is much appreciated.

* * *

Hospitals always got on her nerves, with the ordered chaos of doctors, nurses, visitors, and a mismatched assortment of people who barely had any clue what they were doing. The sharp tang of disinfectant, mingled with the occasional whiff of stale sweat as a harried-looking nurse swept past, made her wrinkle her nose with every few breaths. Even the dried blood covering her hands and uniform had a smell, a slightly pungent odour that kept her mind anchored firmly at a place far from the waiting room and claustrophobic crush of blue uniforms crammed into too small a space. The scene played over and over, stuck on a continuous track, never stopping. Like an annoying broken record screeching out Jimmi Hendrix, she kept hearing Malloy's pleading voice, begging her to tell his family the one thing that she didn't say nearly enough to her own family. The flood of sorrowful tears had long since stopped, but the streaks on her cheeks and the shattered expression remained in her eyes. It was one thing to see an officer's body being lifted carefully and respectfully into an ambulance on the news. It was quite another to be the one at the dying officer's side, to be the one holding his hand, trying to stop the bleeding, urging him to hang on and stay awake. It was something else entirely and she would wish no such thing on anyone. Being there when Malloy drew his last breath, steadfast despite every ounce of her heart screaming at her to run as fast as she could, to get away from the gut-wrenching scene, had required all the strength she could muster. At least Bosco was there, at least someone had spoken softly to her unhearing ears, when it was all over. The paramedics had no words or time for her. But her partner eased her away from the body, drawn her out of the daze that had fallen over her as she knelt beside Malloy's lifeless form, her head bowed as she screamed endlessly in the blessed privacy of her mind.

Her hat was clenched in her fingers, turned so the picture resting behind the clear plastic inside was visible. She studied the faces captured in the image, the smiling faces of Fred and the kids, posing in Central Park. It was not an old picture, but neither new enough to reflect Charlie's recent growth spurt or Emily's longer hair. The emotions that surrounded the time the picture had been taken were happy ones, and she sought to reclaim even a piece of those emotions. Something, anything, to remind her that she was the lucky one, to still be alive and healthy. There was so much to live for, anyway. Fred. The kids. Herself. The Job. To hell with The Job. Her family was ultimately more important than The Job could ever be. Her family was all she really had. And Bosco. There was always Bosco and his sometimes ribald sense of humour and occasional flash of temper. At work, he was the one she knew she could count on in a pinch. Steady like a rock, although he would be the last one to admit it.

She brushed her fingertips across the picture inside her hat, knowing that she should call, knowing that reports of "an officer from the Fifty-Fifth Precinct shot and killed" would be splashed all over the news stations. No names would be released until the family was notified, which was taking a surprisingly long time. She knew she should call Fred to allay the fears that she knew he would be having, but she couldn't make herself move from the hard plastic chair she had been sitting in for nearly two hours. She hadn't moved hardly at all since arriving in the ambulance with Malloy's body. Bosco had led the way in the RMP, siren wailing, making sure that there was no impediment to the bus and its grave burden. No one had approached her, or said anything to her. It was all too clear to the veteran staff what was running through the heart and mind of the blood-covered officer hunched in a chair in the corner. Grief, guilt, anger, doubt. They had seen similar things too many times before.

Andy O'Shea had locked himself in a bathroom down the hall and no one had been able to convince him to come out. Lieutenant Swersky would knock on the door at intervals and say something that she couldn't hear. The end result was always the same. He would walk away, shaking his head sadly. Half the department had gathered in the waiting room, standing around silently until the arrival of Malloy's family. It was the tradition that was followed any time an officer was wounded or killed. She had been amongst the sea of dark blue uniforms many times before, too many times before. Only this time, it affected her in a vastly deeper way.

"Faith?"

A hand came to rest on her shoulder, tentatively squeezing. She looked up to see her partner gazing down at her, clearly worried at her silence and self-imposed isolation. He had a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

He didn't look convinced. "You want some coffee?"

Faith looked briefly at the Styrofoam cup and felt her stomach revolt at the idea of hospital coffee. Or any coffee, for that matter. She shook her head.

"You okay?" Bosco asked again, setting the cup down on the nearby table. "You haven't left this chair in over two hours."

"I'm fine," she lied. "Really. I'm, I'm just thinking."

"Swersky thinks you should go home."

She shook her head again, adamantly this time. "No."

"Faith." Bosco sat down in the chair on her left side. "There's nothing to see here. Malloy's family will be here soon anyway."

"I, I can't go home. I owe it to him to stay."

Her partner reached over and took one of her blood-covered hands, his eyes taking in the stains on her jacket and shirt, and the dried crimson on her hands and in her hair. At first glance, it almost looked like she had been shot too. "You should at least clean up."

"Clean up…?" Faith looked down and wondered why she hadn't noticed the blood on her hands. She had forgotten in the flurry of chaos that ensued after the paramedics arrived. Her fingers tightened around Bosco's, the yawning sense of grief and loss threatening to overwhelm her again.

"It's okay," he murmured, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. Without a word, she leaned across the short distance between them to rest her forehead on his chest. It was no use fighting the tears that were leaking slowly down her face. Startled by her vulnerability and the fact she was letting him see it, Bosco bit his lip and hesitantly put his arms round her. He was no good at this, but he'd try.

"I was right there, right there. I tried to stop the bleeding, but it was too much, I tried, I tried, but I couldn't save him… I tried… he was so scared, and I couldn't help him."

"It's okay." He couldn't think of anything else to say. What could he say that would ease the guilt that she felt? "He didn't die alone."

Faith tried to speak but couldn't find her voice. Her mouth hung open in a silent cry of suffering so deep he couldn't begin to imagine how devastated she must feel. While she had knelt by Malloy's side, held his hand, and did her best to keep him calm and talking, he, Bosco, had stood there and watched, unable to help one bit. His partner took the brunt of the emotional backlash and all he could do was watch. He hated feeling so helpless and unsure. What was he supposed to do, what was he supposed to say, to make her feel better? Was there anything? Or was he supposed to just let her be, leave her to dwell on the what ifs and slowly fall to pieces wondering what she could have done differently when there was nothing else she could have done? No. He couldn't let that happen to her. Not to the one person who really understood him and cared about him. The only thing Bosco was certain of was his partner had done everything in her power for Malloy, and he was going to do everything in his power for her, to help her get through this and still be the woman he relied on every shift.

"Faith!"

Bosco knew that voice. Fred was here. He knew he shouldn't let his partner's husband see him anywhere near Faith, but he wasn't about to leave her alone until he was sure she would be okay.

"Faith!" Fred pushed his way through the crowd of officers and was at his wife's side in a few long strides, steadfastly ignoring Bosco. "I saw it on the news, I had to come down. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, her voice hoarse. She held onto Bosco as though her life depended on it, not trusting her muscles to support her just yet. Her whole body felt rubbery and weak. "I should have called…"

"You weren't hurt?" Fred asked, eyeballing the stains on her uniform.

"No. I, I was," Faith let out a long breath, "I helped them move his body."

Bosco winced inwardly at the lie but said nothing. Whatever made dealing with this easier for her was okay with him. She was still leaning on him like a crutch and he was beginning to feel uncomfortable intruding on what should probably be personal time for the two of them. He knew there was enough tension between them without him adding to it.

"You're sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"I should, uh, go see if the family is here yet," Bosco said, searching for a way out of staying there whilst the two talked.

Fred looked at him as if only then realising he was there. "What are you doing here?"

"He was checking on me."

"You're okay, though, so he can leave."

Bosco moved to stand up, but Faith had a grip on his sleeve. "Please don't. It's okay."

"You two should talk," he said. "I'll go see if I can coax O'Shea out of the bathroom. He's been in there since they brought Malloy in."

"You'll be okay?"

Funny that she should ask him that, when she was the one who'd had to watch a fellow officer die in front of her. He forced a grin for her sake. "Yeah, I'm all right. You should go home anyway, it's been a long day."

"Why was he here?"

Faith studied the dark, dried crimson caked under her fingernails. "He was making sure I was okay. He was worried."

"I don't like it," Fred stated, covering her hand with both of his. "He's trouble."

"He's not trouble. Things aren't always what they seem."

"That's for damn sure. Come on, we're going home."

"Okay." Faith sighed in wearied resignation. With Bosco chased off by Fred's unexpected appearance, she felt cast adrift, as if her one real support had been stolen away from her. As much as she trusted and confided in Fred, he wasn't there with her every day on the street, seeing and sharing the same things. That was Bosco, and he was the only one who knew what it was like, what she was feeling and thinking, what to say and do to help her get through. It felt like a betrayal of her relationship with Fred, but if she had to choose who she wanted to talk to about work, it would be Bosco. Fred would never fully understand that, she knew it. He resented Bosco, because he thought that the two partners spent too much time together. She couldn't blame him. She would feel the same if their positions were reversed.

"It's not what you think."

"What isn't?"

"Bosco and me. He was there, too, when Malloy died. Neither of us could do anything to help him." The words were like sandpaper being scraped along her throat. She had to force herself to say each one. "I held Malloy's hand and talked to him before he died. I was the last person he saw. And I couldn't do a damn thing for him."

Fred's expression softened and he slid his arm around her shoulders. "Come on," he said softly. "Let's go home."


	14. Return to Innocence

I think it befits the plot line to show how each one handles the loss of a fellow officer, so this and the next chapter will feature Bosco, Faith, and O'Shea.

"Return to Innocence" is copyrighted to Enigma.

* * *

The news came to him as he raced into the hospital, having chased the ambulance all the way from the sidewalk where it happened. Malloy was gone. He had not taken the news well at all and not even Lieutenant Swersky by himself was able to control the wildly fighting O'Shea as he tried to follow his friend's body into the depths of the hospital. In the end, it had taken four officers and one or two nurses to finally wrestle him to the floor and hold him there. As he had been forced inexorably down, he had caught a glimpse of a pair of officers standing off to the side, one covered heavily with drying blood and the other without a drop on him. That one brief sight told him the entire story. One of those officers had been there for his partner when he hadn't, and the other had merely watched. So much for the brotherhood!

It was a long ten minutes of being crushed by the weight of six bodies before he finally admitted defeat. There was nothing he could do for Malloy. He had failed his best friend miserably. One by one, the pressure on his body eased as his captors got back to their feet. He was left alone on the floor with only his anguish for company. Without a word to anyone – not even to the female officer with crimson-stained uniform – he had staggered upright and fled for the security of the nearest room, which happened to be a bathroom. That fact did not register as he heaved the door shut and stabbed blindly for the button that was the door lock. He wanted and needed no one to see him like this.

Why hadn't he been there! O'Shea balled his hands tightly into fists, holding them up in front of his face. He watched his knuckles turn white and welcomed the ache that came from squeezing so hard. Pain was good, it took his mind off the magnitude of his failure. Fail he had, in the worst way possible. He had let down his best friend and partner, who was now dead. The Irishman howled and swung at the nearest solid object. Glass shattered around his pummelling fists, the shards slicing open his knuckles with their keen edges. The pinpricks were barely felt. He didn't care about how badly he might hurt himself. What were a few flesh wounds when in the same building there was a man with two bullet holes in him that had ended his life?

At last he reeled away from the remains of the mirror and the dents he had pounded into the thin metal behind were the glass had been. He leant against the wall, his chest heaving from exertion and the effort of fighting back his tears. He could feel his strength waning. It was just as well he had shut himself off from human contact. The only way to deal with this was to be alone.

* * *

_Love – Devotion_

_Feeling – Emotion_

_Love – Devotion_

_Feeling – Emotion…_

* * *

O'Shea stared down at his hands, at the cuts that glared angry red. The wounds throbbed terribly, but he welcomed the pain. It reminded him that he was still living and breathing despite the surreal daze that had fallen over him when he first arrived at the hospital. His best friend was gone for ever and he had not been there to watch his back, like he had promised so many years ago. _This is so bloody wrong._ He remembered slamming the door of the hospital bathroom and making sure it was locked so he would be left alone. Nobody could make this any easier. He should have been there, on that street corner. He should have been there to protect his partner. But he hadn't been there. The thought made him sick to his very bones. His stomach heaved and he dropped to his knees before the toilet and vomited, the tears streaming down his face. He hadn't eaten much at all that day, and yet his stomach was finding something deep within itself to expel. When the waves of nausea had finally subsided, O'Shea slid onto the cool tile floor, his muscles too weak yet to allow him to sit up. Malloy was dead and he hadn't been with him when it had gone down. One of those bullets should have been for him too. God bloody dammit, there should be two bodies lying side by side in the viewing room instead of just the one!

He managed to pull himself up into a sitting position and tucked himself into a ball, wrapping his arms around himself. Why had he stayed behind to write out reports while Malloy had gone out alone to McCray's? The first rule they had agreed on years ago was never to separate when they were on shift. Stupid, stupid bloody fool he was! O'Shea stared up at the ceiling, wishing he could see through it all the way up to heaven, where God must be laughing and savouring yet another victory. He cursed aloud, his language as coarse as it had been when he was a rookie. _May the devil take me this day, for God mocks me. _His stomach clenched and he felt dizzy again. This time he didn't bother trying to lurch the few feet to the toilet and emptied his stomach onto the floor. The fact that he felt slight relief afterwards was revolting. There should be no relief for him.

* * *

_…Don't be afraid to be weak_

_Don't be too proud to be strong_

_Just look into your heart, my friend_

_That will be the return to yourself_

_The return to innocence…_

* * *

"O'Shea?" Lieutenant Swersky. What the hell did he want?

"Bugger off, ya Yankee bastard, and leave a lad to his peace." O'Shea spat at the door, not caring one bit about his choice of words. He was best left alone, there was nothing anyone else could do for him.

"O'Shea, open the door."

The grieving officer yanked his baton from his belt and heaved it at the door, letting the loud thud of wood striking wood serve as his reply. He was in no mood to bandy words with anyone. He wanted no trite comments of sympathy from people who had barely known Malloy. Not like he'd known him. Bloody hell, they'd gone through the Academy together and been partners for nearly twelve years. After the accident, they'd still been like brothers, even though Malloy was given a rookie to break in. O'Shea ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, fiercely smearing away the tears. It had taken a year and a half for him to be cleared for duty after his fall. A year and a half for a broken back and a couple cracked ribs. He'd felt ready to come back within six months, but the doctor in all his wisdom had said no. There was no going back to work until the whole therapy programme had been completed. His feelings about that remained the same, even after nearly fifteen years of being back in uniform. That doctor's report was complete bollocks. But he'd obeyed it anyway. An order, after all, was an order.

He looked down at his hat, at the clear plastic sleeve that protected the picture of his family. It was an old picture. Becky was still in it, her arms stretched wide to fit around the three children in front of her. Dammit, where was she when he needed more strength than what he had left? _Piss and bloody crackers, everything I love is being stolen away from me._ First Rebecca, now Malloy. O'Shea stacked his fists on his knee and planted his forehead firmly on the top of the pile, rocking himself back and forth. What was the use in carrying on when there was almost nothing left to live for?

* * *

_…If you want, then start to laugh_

_If you must, then start to cry_

_Be yourself, don't hide_

_Just believe in destiny…_

* * *

A bitter smile tainted his features. There were two wee children who were probably waiting for their father to come home so they could show him what they'd done that day. Bless their little innocent hearts, too soon to be made far less innocent. It would be nearly the same for his kids, except they would be getting their father back. Malloy's children would not. In a way, O'Shea thought, neither were his own. A big piece of him had died with Malloy, easily as big a piece as he lost when Becky had died. He stretched across the floor to retrieve his hat. He had to leave soon, before it got too late. There were people waiting for him, and there were people he needed to talk to.

Who was the female officer he'd seen in the waiting room, the one with the bloody uniform and the shattered expression? Her face was familiar. Oh yeah, Yokas. O'Shea felt a twinge of shame at not knowing her first name. He needed to talk to her, to thank her for doing for Malloy what he hadn't been able to. For being there to comfort him even as he died. If he was suffering because of Malloy's death, what would Yokas be feeling? She had been right there, watching it happen. It didn't get much worse than that.

Silence fell over the crowd in the waiting room when the bathroom door clicked open. All eyes turned toward the dishevelled cop who emerged from the room, his hands torn and his face ghost-white. O'Shea looked no one in the eye as he surveyed the sea of faces for one in particular. She wasn't there. He couldn't blame her. Who in their right mind would want to stay too long with so many people around?

"Andy! Dear God, you're okay!"

O'Shea felt a ripple of fresh liquid working its way toward his eyes as Malloy's wife flung her arms around his neck. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there for him, Tara."

* * *

_…Don't care what people say_

_Just follow your own way_

_Don't give up and use the chance_

_To return to innocence…_

* * *

His truck sat forlornly on the other side of the double chain link fence, its faded red paint standing out amongst the pristine white of the RMPs parked in rows. O'Shea shook his head and started up the steps into the station house. The sooner he climbed into that battered front seat, the sooner he could escape to the last place of comfort he had left. No one inside spoke to him, neither before nor after he had changed out of his uniform. _Fine with me, lads. You didn't know him anyway._ He left the subdued bustle of the station house behind him. He'd have to return to that world soon enough. Thankfully not tonight.

O'Shea winced at the creak of the hinges as he pulled open the door of the truck. He needed to get that oiled. The engine coughed and whined when he turned the key, trying bravely to catch but failing. The poor truck was dead. Just like too many other things. He pounded the steering wheel with his open palms in frustration. Why couldn't anything go right! It was at least thirteen blocks to his tiny apartment. Walking all that way this late at night was lunacy, but how else was he to get home? He yanked the keys out of the ignition and shoved them into his pocket. Maybe it would help clear his head. It wouldn't do for his kids to see him like this.

The night air felt good on his warm face. He paused for a moment on the curb before crossing the street in front of the precinct, his eyes turned skyward. There were so many stars twinkling against the black velvet sky. Malloy was up there now, somewhere amidst that heavy sprinkling of heavenly light.

"At least it's a better place." O'Shea whispered. "I'll miss you, me old mate."

* * *

_…That's not the beginning of the end_

_That's the return to yourself_

_The return to innocence…_

* * *

His boots scraped up the stairs to his apartment, scattering dirt and dust everywhere as he slowly moved from one step to the next. One step at a time, one foot in front of the other. The same way he'd had to do when his wife had died. He remembered right where he was when the news came, remembered what he had been doing. Everyone around him turned with him, as though with one mind and body, to look to the west. Thick black smoke billowing to the clear blue sky drew the eyes of thousands of people who stopped to watch the horror unfold before them. Then, like so many others, he had run to the scene as fast as his legs could carry him. The fire department was just arriving when he paused on the sidewalk before the doors for a few breathless seconds to regain his wind. Somewhere up in that living hell was Becky, terrified and confused. The sharp tang of burning paper and choking swirls of smoke flitted across his senses, real only in his memory. He had cast aside all thoughts of his own safety when he sprinted into that building, intent on finding her and bringing her out alive and safe. In that he had failed when the order to evacuate was issued and three firefighters had been forced to drag him bodily to safety. Those same three struggled to keep him back when the building tumbled in on itself, and his last feeble hope died within him. The award he had received for 'extreme courage and devotion to duty' meant nothing to him. Those people he had helped to get out had not been his top priority. No, his main concern was purely selfish. If there was an award for that, he certainly deserved it.

He would go there tonight, to seek what comfort he could from the cold grey stone that marked the place where only her memory lay buried. He would go as soon as he hugged his kids and made sure they were okay. They were always there, even through the weeks and months after losing their mother. Lord, they took after her far more than they did after him.

The door to his too-small apartment creaked open when he nudged it with his toe. Peals of laughter echoed down the short hallway leading to the bedrooms. O'Shea pushed the door closed with his back, suddenly too weary to remain on his feet. He sank to the floor, drew his knees to his chest, and rested his forehead on his forearms. Only here, in the security of his apartment, would he allow himself to grieve openly.

"Daddy!" Three pairs of feet thundered toward him. "Look what we made today!"

"Where's Uncle Luke? We made him something too!"

O'Shea couldn't stop the torrent of warm, salty liquid from streaming down his face. He never liked letting his kids see him like this, but losing Malloy was too much to bear. Small hands reached out to touch his face and shoulders as the two youngest sought to comfort their father. It was all too much. He drew them as close to him as he could and held on tight, grateful to still have something to love.

"Don't be sad, Daddy." Heather's fingers stroked his hair and she pressed her small, round face against his cheek. Dear God, little things brought such great relief. O'Shea squeezed his eyes shut and savoured each moment as long as he could.

"Is Uncle Luke okay?" Little Sarah asked, cradling her head against her father's shoulder. O'Shea caught his breath at the question and trembled. How could he tell the truth? How could he tell this little girl that the man she and her siblings called "Uncle" was gone for ever? How, when he could barely tell himself that?

"He's gone to see your Mum." He replied, his voice thick with emotion.

There was a sharp intake of breath from his oldest and he knew that Jamie understood. Heather and Sarah wrapped their arms around their father as tight as they could and he held onto them for dear life. His saving graces. O'Shea kissed the two faces resting against him and rocked gently from side to side, grateful that not everything had been taken away from him.

"I love you Daddy."

O'Shea's eyes watered up again. "I love you too, little one."

* * *

_…That's the return to innocence…_


	15. The Reason

This chapter will be split between Bosco and Faith using the same song lyrics. I hope it won't be too confusing to follow.

* * *

"The Reason" is copyrighted to Hoobastank. I'm just borrowing the lyrics for this chapter. I promise to put them back where I found them.

* * *

The low rumble of traffic moving along from one red light to another was lost on Bosco. He was slouched behind the wheel of his car, windows rolled up, doing his best to shut out the world. Contact with people was the last thing he wanted tonight. After finally escaping the hospital waiting room and all the cops crammed into it, he wanted nothing more than to be alone. Faith had long since left with Fred by the time Bosco pried himself away from the presence of grim-faced officers and sobbing family members. He hoped that no one would make a big deal out of his death, when he went. That sort of show of unity and mourning wasn't what he wanted. Too much attention.

He wished that he had been able to check on Faith one more time before she had gone home, but Fred had not left her side since arriving. It was only right that they should be left to themselves. Who was he to interfere with their marriage, anyway? They had enough troubles without him. That's all he brought to people. Trouble. He was glad that she at least had someone to turn to. Someone who was there for her, no matter what. Maybe someday, he would find someone like that for himself. Someday. Just not tonight.

Bosco paused before pushing open the door to his apartment, resting his forehead on the cool metal of the number plates in the centre of the panelling. What he desperately wanted was someone to talk to, but there was no one. He wouldn't allow himself that luxury, because the only one he felt close enough to was Faith, and she was having a far worse time than he was right then. His mind flashed back to the sidewalk, that scene from hell. She was looking up at him, her bloodied hands resting limply on Malloy's body, pure agony streaming down her face in the form of tears. She needed Fred tonight.

Over in the corner, the battered stereo system waited for him to pick up the remote and turn on something that would take his mind away to a place that didn't hurt quite so much. What was there on the radio that could possibly do that? He sighed, collapsing onto the couch. There had to be something. Maybe he would get lucky and some rock station would be playing Springsteen.

"What the hell is this crap?" Bosco scowled at the stereo, as if to blame it for the low chords of a piano vibrating from the speakers. "This ain't rock." His finger moved to the 'seek' button on the remote but he stopped himself when the music was joined with lyrics. He'd give it a couple seconds. Maybe it would be good.

* * *

She curled her fingers around the warm mug of tea and breathed deep of the aroma before taking a cautious sip of the steaming liquid. Fred finished pouring himself a mug and crossed the floor to take a seat on the couch next to her. His presence was comforting. Faith scooted across the cushion to be closer to him. She needed to be touched and held, to be reassured that there was a reason for all the madness that seemed to be taking over the outside world. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and rested his chin on the crown of her head. This was it, this was what she needed. Simple comfort.

"I'm glad you're okay."

"Me too." Faith closed her eyes and willed her muscles to relax. Nothing could hurt her in her own home. Then why didn't she feel at ease? There was a knot between her shoulder blades that stubbornly refused to stop throbbing. Fred's hand squeezed her upper arm gently and she knew he sensed the tension in her body. It wouldn't go away.

"Something bothering you?"

Yeah, the fact that a good man and officer was killed today. Shot dead on the sidewalk for no reason. "Everything."

Fred set down his mug of tea. "Get onto the floor."

"What for?"

A slight grin lightened his face for a moment. "Just do it."

Faith slid off the couch without a word and Fred covered her shoulders with his hands. She felt a wave of gratitude for the pressure he began to apply on the hardened lump of muscle between her shoulder blades and at the base of her neck. _That feels good._

"Did you know him?"

"Malloy? In passing. He usually worked the day shift." She replied, bowing her head forward. The knotted muscle was beginning to loosen under his fingertips. It really did feel wonderful.

"What was he doing on the street then?"

"He just got cleared for duty after being in a car accident a few days ago." Where was this heading? Why did he want to know?

"How's the family doing?"

"As well as can be expected." Faith closed her eyes again. _Another woman becomes a widow, another kid loses a parent. Yeah, they're doing fine._ She had seen Malloy's wife coming in as she and Fred were leaving. Every officer standing around removed their hats when they saw her. Poor woman didn't know before arriving what had happened, but seeing all the officers with their caps in their hands told her the whole story. Faith could see the realisation take hold in the other woman's face. They had locked eyes as they passed each other. Mrs Malloy slowed down to look closely at the stains on Faith's jacket, shirt, and hands. She wondered what the poor woman thought of the mess of an officer walking past her, leaving a place where half the precinct was gathered.

"You were there, weren't you?"

"Yes ma'am."

Mrs Malloy swallowed hard and clearly summoned her courage for her next question. "Did he say anything?"

Faith had seen her own pain mirrored in the other woman's eyes. She had promised him. "He said he loves you all."

The choked sob that escaped from Malloy's widow was more than Faith needed to hear. Fresh tears trickled down her cheeks as Mrs Malloy broke down. Lieutenant Swersky was quick to come to her side and lead her away, casting a sympathetic glance over his shoulder at Faith as he moved away.

"You think we might have some music?"

She felt embarrassed to have drifted away from the living room. "Please. Anything to get my mind off today."

Fred kissed the top of her head as he got up to walk over to the stereo next to the television. _Please let there be something worthwhile playing._ Faith thought, taking another drink from her mug of tea.

* * *

_I'm not a perfect person_

_As many things I wish I didn't do_

_But I continue learning_

_I never meant to do those things to you_

_And so I have to say before I go,_

_That I just want you to know…_

* * *

What the hell was this stuff? Some whiny-voiced little boy trying to sing? Bosco heaved himself to his feet to see if there was anything in the fridge. Over in the corner, the song played on.

* * *

"This sounds like something Emily would listen to."

"Mm. I think it's one of her CDs."

Fred resumed his place on the couch. "It's okay if you want to talk about work."

"I know." Faith said, but she knew that it wasn't.

* * *

_…I've found a reason for me_

_To change who I used to be_

_A reason to start over new_

_And the reason is you…_

* * *

With a hiss and pop, the cap came off the bottle of beer. His last one. It figured that he would run out when he needed those long-necks the most. As long as it helped to numb the pain rampaging through him. Bosco dropped back onto the couch and propped his feet up on the coffee table. What would his mother think of him, were she to see him like this? What would his partner think? He took a sip from the bottle. What did it matter? She was at her own place, with her family, doing whatever she did to deal.

* * *

The tea was getting cold when she picked up the mug again. Fred had emptied his own mug and taken it back to the sink. He was stroking her hair, probably wondering what he could do for her that he hadn't already done. She was ashamed to admit that there was precious little he could do. It was up to her to get herself back together, and he couldn't help with that. If she needed support, the first place she'd turn would be to him. _And if not him, then to Bosco._ The very thought felt wrong, but it was the truth. She wondered how he was holding up, whether he was letting anyone take some of the burden of pain away from him. Probably not.

* * *

_…I'm sorry that I hurt you_

_It's something I must live with everyday_

_And all the pain I put you through_

_I wish I could take it all away_

_And be the one who catches all your tears_

_That's why I need you to hear…_

* * *

This is what he did to heal. Bosco held up the bottle and watched a bead of condensation roll down the dark glass. That is, of course, if he had enough beer left to make it worthwhile. He tipped the bottle up again, his ears tuning into the song at last. What was this guy trying to say, anyway?

* * *

She knew that Fred wished he could take away all the pain and shield her from the nightmares that plagued her sleep too often. He wished so much that he could do something to get her to change her mind and her profession, but she had been on the street too long to give it up. It had taken a hold of her and refused to let go. And look what it was doing to her and her family.

No. She kept The Job separate from her family. It did not touch them. It didn't.

* * *

_…I've found a reason for me_

_To change who I used to be_

_A reason to start over new_

_And the reason is you…_

* * *

The reason? There was no reason. Things happened that were so terrible, there couldn't be a reason. Things like Malloy's death. Where was the reason for that? What purpose did that serve, except to shatter the lives of those who knew him? Bosco closed his eyes to block out the sight of Malloy's ghost-white face, his wild brown eyes, as the dying man begged Faith to stay with him, to not let him die alone. _No! Go away!_ _I don't need to see that again!_ Without thinking about it, he downed half the bottle in a single long swallow. It wasn't enough. It was never enough.

* * *

They were her reason for being, for surviving. Fred, Emily, and Charlie. Nothing would ever change that. Not even her best friend came as close to her heart as did her family. And how could she prove that to those who needed to know it the most? Faith looked up at Fred. He tried so hard for all of them. They both did.

"I wish you would let me in," he said.

* * *

_…And the reason is you…_

* * *

Her expression, as he stood over her, reflected how she felt. God, how he wished he had been the one there, kneeling at Malloy's side, instead of her. It didn't matter to him if he was affected by stuff that happened at work. He knew how to handle it. But it was something else entirely when it was his partner and friend on the receiving end. If only he had been two steps ahead of her, two seconds faster, she might have been spared the experience of watching a man die.

* * *

She remained silent, at a loss for what to say. The truth was, she wished she could. But there was no way for him to really understand her feelings, even though she tried to express them. That was where Bosco came in, and she knew that the mere mention of her partner's name would bring a swift end to the peace that had fallen over the apartment. How could she tell Fred that what she wanted most from him was his understanding that there were some things that she could only tell Bosco?

* * *

_…And the reason is you…_

* * *

Bosco came to his feet and paced restlessly around the apartment. How in the world could a mere _song_ make him feel so guilty? Dammit all, it was his job to be out there, watching her back. He had done that. She was safely at home with her husband. So why in the hell did he feel so bad? There was nothing left for him to do, at least not tonight. Why did he care so much, anyway? It wasn't like he had known Malloy outside of his name and face. And yet he felt as though something important to him had been lost. What the hell?

* * *

Fred stood up, weariness clouding his features. There was nothing in his power he could do or say to ease the storm in her heart, and they both knew it.

"It's late."

A glance at the clock showed him to be right. Faith sighed. "Yeah."

He bent down to kiss her forehead. "You'll be okay?"

"Yeah." She watched him walk toward the bedroom, reluctant surrender slowing his step. He hated to give up. "Fred."

He turned back in the doorway.

"I love you."

His expression lightened. "I love you too."

The mood was broken when he disappeared into the bedroom. Faith hung her head. What he didn't know was that walking away was the worst thing he could do.

* * *

_…And the reason is you…_

* * *

The neighbours would think he was a lunatic, if they could hear the thoughts he was voicing out loud. He didn't care. He up-ended the beer bottle only to discover it was empty. What! Wasn't that just great, then! His only hope of relief was gone now. Perfect. What was he supposed to do now? Bosco slammed the bottle onto the table, feeling more alone than he had in a long time. What was he doing here, by himself, when there were bars all over the place? Yeah, that sounded good. Anything to soften the blows of emotion that were pounding his heart to pieces.

* * *

What now? What was her reason? Was anything worth all this pain and tension? She didn't know, she was alone with her thoughts and her guilt. It was past midnight already. There wouldn't be anyone from the precinct out at this time of night. Would there? Maybe Sully would still be at the hospital. He'd known Malloy. Maybe O'Shea would have emerged from the bathroom he had locked himself in. As long as there was someone around to talk to. Faith got to her feet. She needed a reason to carry on this time. Simply saying she had to wasn't enough anymore.

* * *

_…I'm not a perfect person_

_I never meant to do those things to you_

_And so I have to say before I go,_

_That I just want you to know…_

* * *

No, he wasn't perfect. He never claimed to be. Why would anyone want to be perfect in the first place? Bosco shoved his feet into a pair of shoes and grabbed his jacket from where he had thrown it. Tomorrow was going to be hell to bear with a hangover, but it was a price to pay for taking the edge off his pain. Aw, hell, why couldn't his partner be there for him to talk to? Going out drinking alone wouldn't help much, not unless he ran into Sully or Davis.

* * *

The streets were eerily silent and empty. A lone streetlamp on the corner flickered in a valiant effort to remain lit. She walked in a direction she knew well, her feet automatically carrying her to a destination fixed firmly in her memory. Leaving her own apartment had taken all the strength she could muster. The moment that door clicked shut behind her, she knew she was taking an enormous chance. _But it's a chance I need to take. I can't go back to work like this._ Faith shoved her hands deeper into her jacket pockets and turned the corner. She was almost there.

* * *

_…I've found a reason for me_

_To change who I used to be_

_A reason to start over new_

_And the reason is you…_

* * *

But they weren't Faith. They didn't know him nearly that well. He looked over at the stereo. _They weren't the reason he kept hanging on. _Maybe he should call her, see if she wanted to grab a drink or two. Maybe he shouldn't. The last thing he wanted was to come between her and Fred. That would be crossing a line that could never be uncrossed. No way would he even consider taking that irreversible a step. Bosco picked up the phone, looked at it for a moment, then set it back down. No. He should be alone tonight, and she should be with Fred and the kids.

What was that? He turned toward the door, surprised that someone would be knocking at this hour. _Who in the hell…_

* * *

The lights were on in his apartment. Of course he would still be awake. She wondered how he would react to seeing her at his door at nearly two-thirty in the morning. There was no going back now. Faith let out a resigned sigh and started up the steps leading into the building. It never hurt to try.

She could hear music from inside his apartment. It was the same song that had been playing at home. _Small world._ Her right hand came up and she steeled herself for whatever would happen when she knocked.

* * *

_… I've found a reason to show_

_A side of me you didn't know_

_A reason for all that I do_

_And the reason is you…_

* * *

Bosco opened the door cautiously, expecting to see one of the neighbours. His eyes went wide when he saw who it really was.

"Hey, um, can I, can I come in?"


	16. Taking Chances

Got you going with that last one, didn't I? Yes, I do ship Bosco and Faith, but not really. They're a great team but I don't see them together romantically. No, that last chapter was not a shipper chapter. What's the point of putting this whole thing together only to spoil it by deviating sharply from the norm I've tried to follow?

Now. That said, tighten your seatbelts.

* * *

Wickes and Asheby get a lead on the dealer behind the murders, and O'Shea, Bosco, and Faith start hunting down suspects.

* * *

The locker room was strangely silent as officers changed for work and to go home. There was nothing anyone could think of to say, the loss of a colleague in the line of duty was far too prominent in each mind. Andy O'Shea had come in for his shift as though it was just another day, but his façade was transparent. Swersky had tried to send him home. Instead of complying, the remaining half of the famous Irish duo volunteered to work two shifts – both that day and the next, with a strong possibility of the day after as well. His intentions were all too clear. He'd be on duty until the guys who killed his former partner were caught.

Bosco's eyes were on the blue stripes on O'Shea's sleeve as the older man buttoned up a clean shirt. Those hash marks meant more than a few years in uniform. To be honest, he was a little bit in awe of O'Shea's reputation. The stories abounded about O'Shea and Malloy, a pair of rough-and-tumble Irish cops who kept their beat as clean as if Saint Peter visited every day. If Bosco wanted to be like anybody in the precinct, it would be one of them.

"If you've got somethin' to say, say it, boy." O'Shea remarked as he hung up his dirty shirt in his locker. He didn't turn his head toward Bosco. "Won't take much t'all to get me takin' a swing at ya tonight, and starin' is a good way to go about it."

"I'm, I'm sorry about your partner." Bosco stammered, caught off-guard.

"Aye, you better be. You were there and did nothin' to help him."

"There was nothing I could have done!"

O'Shea slammed his locker shut, snarling something that Bosco didn't understand. The older officer stepped right up to him, his slightly crooked nose mere centimetres from Bosco's. "There's always something, you don't stand by while a fellow officer is lyin' in a puddle of his own blood and screamin' for your help!" His voice got louder with each word until he was shouting. _"When a man is down, you do not just stand there and watch him die!"_

The one or two officers still in the locker room quickly found reasons to leave. Bosco fought hard to keep himself from taking a step back, his ears ringing from O'Shea's high-decibel tirade. It was all he could do not to snap something back at the other man. O'Shea jabbed his chest sharply with his index finger, striking the Kevlar vest under Bosco's shirt.

"I've heard about your so-called reputation, boy, and I think it's garbage. You think you're the baddest Yankee to walk these streets, but you haven't got a bloody clue about how bad it gets out there and how tough you have to be to handle it. Standin' back and lettin' your partner comfort a lad cryin' and shoutin' for his partner don't make ya a man. Beatin' up blokes already in irons don't make ya a man." O'Shea shook his head, his voice now deadly quiet. "You gotta have the will to get up after fallin' half a story onto the roof of an RMP and walk over to the paramedics in their bus. You have to be on the losin' side of a brawl, watch your own blood be spilt, and still be fightin' like you got a chance even when there ain't, to know you're a man. And you ain't a man yet."

Bosco said nothing and O'Shea stepped away, his eyes as hard as stone. He watched the older cop fasten on his gunbelt and pick up his hat.

"You best stay outta me way tonight, boy. There's some cleanin' up to be done."

* * *

"You seen O'Shea tonight?"

"Only during roll call. Why?"

Bosco finished his walk around the RMP. "All the lights look good. He's got an attitude."

"Well, what do you expect? He just lost his partner."

"He read me the Riot Act in the locker room before roll call. Said I wasn't a man yet, and I'd best stay out of his way tonight." Bosco replied, shaking his head. "I don't know. He seems to be in a really bad mood."

"Then I guess you might want to heed his advice. He's not the sort of cop to mess with on a good day, so why cross him on a bad day?"

"Where does he get the nerve to say that I'm not a man yet, anyway?"

Faith sighed and got into the driver's seat. "Maybe because he's been through more than you or I have and has earned the privilege of passing judgement? I don't know Bosco. Can we just get through this shift without too much excitement?"

"As long as he stays out of my way tonight." Her partner retorted as he buckled himself in. "I still think he's out of line, sayin' that stuff."

"You would."

"What?"

"You would think someone was out of line to give you back the same attitude you give to the world. I don't know if you realise it or not, Bos, but O'Shea's got far more right to have a bad attitude than you do. He just lost his best friend."

"And what do you want me to do about that?"

"Your job would be a good place to start," she replied. "It certainly won't hurt to keep an eye on O'Shea either. There's no telling what he'll try to do tonight."

"Fine. Whatever."

Faith shook her head. It was never any use to argue.

* * *

"Coffee?"

Asheby nodded, not looking up from the phone log he was studying. "The big mug on my desk. Forget that little one. It's not nearly large enough."

"Yeah, definitely a three-cup-start day." Wickes filled the oversized plastic mug to the brim before topping off his own regular-size ceramic one. "Lieu wants these bastards dealt with fast. It's one thing to knock off a dealer or two. It's something else when a cop gets killed."

"That's for damn sure."

"Hey, Wickes. Got something here for you."

Wickes set down the coffee pot. "What's this?"

"Print report from the lab on those packets of Ecstasy you gave to Don." The third detective said. "The prints were only about five to six point matches, at best. Don said that the packaging must've been handled by the edges. Whoever's running this operation knows what's what."

"Great. Any hits on the prints? We need something to go on here."

"Don ran 'em through the system. The first set, this one, turned up four hits. The other one turned up seven." The third detective shrugged, looking apologetic. "Wish I could help you two out, but Lieu's got me and Harris runnin' down all the dealers who got outta Riker's on parole within the last two weeks. So far there are at least twelve."

"Sounds like fun. Good luck." Asheby said.

"Thanks. I'll do just about anything to bag these creeps. Shootin' a cop on the street don't go over well with me. Malloy was a good guy."

Asheby grabbed the folder from his partner's hands. "What do you say we start runnin' down these guys?"

"Get right on it. As soon as you're done, I want a call made to every major city with a bad gang problem. Boston, Philadelphia, Miami, Chicago, Seattle, Houston, _everywhere_. We need to know if this Big T has been a player anywhere else." The unit sergeant said. "I also want you two to canvass the neighbourhood where Malloy was shot and talk to all the witnesses again. It's important that we get as complete a picture of these bastards as we can. Do a photo line-up if you can, or bring in the sketch artist. I want these guys caught."

"Sure thing, Sarge. You gonna run down the numbers on that Beretta we picked up at the schoolyard?"

"Yeah, right after I file a status report on this mess with the Lieutenant. Any ideas on how to make 'no progress' sound good?"

The two detectives shook their heads. "Sorry, Sarge. We're busy."

"Sure you are. Good luck."

Wickes held up the pile of papers that his partner had pulled from the lab report folder. "Yeah, we're gonna need it."

* * *

He looked up the sidewalk toward the parked cruiser waiting for him at the end of the block. Yokas and her partner, whatever his name was. That Italian-sounding name. O'Shea was less than thrilled about meeting the pair. He had no problem with Yokas – if anything, he owed her for comforting Malloy in his last moments. But her partner… he was another matter. There would be difficulties if he didn't keep out of the way.

"Can I help you two?"

Yokas lifted a hand in greeting at O'Shea's approach. "We got a call from Lieu. Detectives want to talk to us about something. We're supposed to meet them back at the house right away."

"That so? Wonder if there's any news on the shooters." O'Shea commented. "Back at the house, eh? S'pose I'll meet ya there, then."

"Swersky said right away. I doubt there's time enough to walk back."

"And who asked you?"

Bosco bristled at the sneer in O'Shea's voice. "Hey, I don't have to take any – "

"Not now, Bosco. O'Shea, get in the back and shut up. I'm not in the mood to babysit anyone today."

The two men glared at each over the top of Yokas' head before O'Shea curled his lip and yanked open the door and folded himself into the cramped backseat.

"Men," Yokas muttered to herself as she manoeuvred the cruiser into traffic.

* * *

"Bingo."

"Whatcha got?"

Wickes replaced the phone receiver and grinned hugely. "We got a hit on our buddy Big T. I just finished speaking with Lieutenant Sanchez of the Los Angeles Police Department. Seems that Big T, otherwise known as Anthony Morris, was a big player out there for years. Until, all of a sudden, he disappeared. Vanished without a trace. There were one or two warrants out for him for dealing and armed robbery or something like that. I wouldn't be surprised if some jerk-off on the good old LAPD tipped him off. There's more dirty cops in that department than fleas on a dog."

"Prejudices aside, Dave, what'd Sanchez say?"

"You'll love this. Five years ago, Patrolman Anthony Morris was fired from the LAPD for selling drugs from his cruiser. He'd only been in uniform for two weeks and his Field Training Officer came back from getting a coffee to find his disciple in the process of counting out packets of Ecstasy to hand over to another guy."

Asheby whistled. "And they let him off without charges?"

"Guess taking away his shield was punishment enough. The only problem is, now there's an Academy-trained dealer loose on the streets. Heaven only knows why he decided to migrate here instead of going to Boston or Miami." Wickes handed over the notes he had taken. "Sanchez is faxing over everything they have on Morris. We should be getting the files within the next ten minutes or so. I suspect they want him desperately for prosecution."

"Only after we get done with him."

"Of course. Ah, look. Here come our three volunteers. Have a seat, if you please, Officers."

The newly-arrived trio traded quick, apprehensive glances as they sat down. Wickes rose to his feet. "I'm glad you're here. We've just received some very interesting news regarding our main suspect."

"The as-yet-unidentified dealer who's been calling the shots, I take it?"

"The same. He's proving very elusive of our efforts to corner him, and even learn about him. But help comes from the most unexpected of places. Our friend is known on the streets as Big T, but his real name is – "

"Anthony Gregory Morris, date-of-birth 5/17/73 in Los Angeles, California." Asheby interrupted, returning from the other side of the room with a sheaf of papers in his hand. "Shield number 3627. Two weeks on the job with the prestigious LAPD after graduating at the top of his class from the Academy. Their brightest student and biggest screw-up. There are three, count 'em, three, warrants outstanding in Los Angeles County for his arrest, one for shooting an officer who attempted to execute a separate warrant. The other two are for the sale of illegal narcotics and armed robbery. In short, this is one bad dude we're up against, and one who has no problems at all with shooting at the police. If at any point we were to move against this guy, we would have to let ESU take the point."

Wickes took the picture of Morris from his partner and held it up. "This is our guy. The mastermind, at any rate. We still don't know who the shooters are, in either case. The guys who whacked Benny are probably the same ones who did for Malloy, but since they left behind a gun at the first scene, ballistics won't make a bit of difference. We're waiting for the fingerprint report on the Beretta to come back from the lab, and from there we can put together a list of suspects."

"What do you need from us?" O'Shea asked.

"We need you to go knock on some doors for us. The fingerprints on the Ecstasy packets found near Staples' body turned up more than a few matches. We've already crossed several names off the list, but there are still at least seven candidates left."

Asheby took the picture from Wickes and tacked it up on the corkboard easel that had been rolled into the office. "What we know so far is this. Staples, Benny, Benny's friend, and Malloy were all killed within the limits of the Precinct. That means our shooters live or at least operate locally. However, each scene is far enough from the others that more than one person is involved." The detective indicated the red thumbtacks stuck into a map of Manhattan. Small slips of paper with the names of the victims written on them were pinned to the map under the tacks. Next to the corkboard easel, someone had set up a whiteboard. Pictures of the victims were taped up with short notes scribbled underneath each one. Asheby turned his attention to these. "At this point, we know that Benny, his buddy Carver, and Staples were all members of a drug ring under the leadership of Big T. It's more than likely, if not probable based on the information that Benny, Dominic, and others have given us, that the pair who killed Staples and the guys who shot Benny, Carver, and Malloy are members too. The group is called Dolphin, or something like that. It doesn't matter. What matters is the interesting fact that these killings – aside from Malloy – appear to be entirely within the gang. Whether or not it's some form of self-governing we're not sure. There's no way to find out until we get somebody to talk. All our usual informants have clammed right up."

"What about the guys who've dropped out of sight?"

"You mean your brother? It's been three days since he went to ground. I think it's getting hard to stay hidden without access to a steady supply of drugs. We'll be seeing him around again soon. Don't worry, we've got people watching for him and others."

Bosco didn't look convinced. "Let's hope so."

"I've a question about this Morris. If he's behind all this, why haven't we seen him around? He'd need to give orders somehow." Faith said.

"That's a good question. My guess is he uses runners to carry his orders around."

"Aye, maybe. But we can't do piss-all with guesses, though, can we?" O'Shea growled, folding his arms. "What can you tell us that we can use?"

Wickes rubbed both hands over his face. "Not much. All we really have is bits and pieces. There's nothing solid we can build a case on. Not until we get reports back from the lab and get more people talking."

"Here's a list of the skels whose prints were matched by the lab. Good luck."

O'Shea snatched the paper from Asheby without a word and stalked out of the station. Wickes shook his head.

"Poor guy. He wants somebody to take the rap for this, and there's nobody."

"Not yet, anyway." His partner added.

"All the same. Keep an eye on him, you two. It's been years since I've seen him that angry." Wickes said. "He's gonna get himself into trouble."

* * *

The well-polished dark oak of his baton reflected the dim lights of the hallway as he raised the weapon to thump it forcefully against the cheap plywood door that stood between him and the bastard who was named in the print report. This one better have something worthwhile to say, unlike the last two. Complete wastes of his time, those two. He hated wasting his time.

"NYPD, open the bloody door."

There was a click from the other side as somebody unfastened the lock. "We ain't done nothin'."

"Bull– " O'Shea shoved against the door, forcing it open. "I'm lookin' for Adam Seavey. Where is he?"

Something around the corner moved and O'Shea was on it in a flash, but still half a second too late. Feet clattering down the metal fire escape told him that his intended quarry was making a run for it. At once, the officer tucked himself through the window and clattered down the steps after him.

"Stop, police!"

People dove out of the way of the pair. Seavey was running for all he was worth, keeping well ahead of the officer chasing him.

"Five-Five Edward Foot to Central, in foot pursuit of a suspect, heading south on Madison."

"Ten-four, Eddie Foot."

"Five-Five David responding. South on Madison."

Dammit! What were they doing? This was his collar!

"Five-Five Charlie responding. We're right on 116th."

O'Shea darted around a cab that had slammed on its brakes to avoid hitting Seavey. The cabbie leant out his window, shouting in frustration. His profane protests at the unexpected interruption of his day went unnoticed. There were more important matters at hand. Seavey glanced quickly over his shoulder. O'Shea was still hard on his heels, not gaining but not falling behind either.

"Stop!"

The skinny little punk pushed past a fruit vendor, scattering the man's armload of bananas all over the street. Approaching sirens drowned out the man's angry yelling. O'Shea shoved past the vendor as the man attempted to retrieve a banana bunch and stepped squarely on one of the crescent-shaped bunches, smashing it flat and squirting banana mush all over the sidewalk. He raced on, oblivious to the mess he left behind.

"Five-Five Eddie Footto Central, now heading east on 116th."

"Ten-four."

He was running out of breath fast. No way he could keep this up much longer. An RMP barrelled around the corner, going in the opposite direction. It was Yokas and Boscorelli. The cruiser was half-way down the block before it was able to pull into a tire-squealing U-turn. Seavey was already heading down 110th as fast as his legs would carry him, the rapidly tiring O'Shea still doggedly chasing him.

All at once, Seavey disappeared. O'Shea sprinted on for a few more yards before coming to a halt in disbelief. What the hell! He had been right in front of him, in full view. Then a group of chattering tourists had crossed between them and Seavey had vanished. It wasn't possible.

"Damn and bloody hell!" O'Shea hammered his baton into the side of a trashcan, his chest heaving. He looked up and down the street but didn't see his quarry anywhere. And where were those two RMPs, anyway? Weren't they following him?

All at once, a tingle rippled down his spine. Something unpleasant was about to happen. His instincts kicked in hard as he sensed movement behind him. _Don't look, don't look, that'll tip 'em off._ He tightened his grip on his baton and brought it up and around in a tight swing, letting the momentum of the motion turn him toward the threat behind him. The end of the weapon struck its target in the chest, knocking the man aside. As the first assailant fell, three more appeared out of the crowd. O'Shea worked his wrist around in a circle, twirling the baton expertly. He squared himself for the attack that was coming in the form of a baseball bat.

"C'mon, lads, let's see what ya got!"

"Eat this, pig!" The thug with the bat snarled, swinging the weapon with both hands. O'Shea sidestepped and drove the point of his baton into the man's stomach. As the thug folded around the baton, O'Shea slammed his left elbow into the small of his back. Two down, two to go. They rushed him, arms spread wide to prevent him dodging again. The Irishman tensed for the impact as he swung his baton at the thug on the left. _Either way, they're gonna hit me._ His target went down under the strike, but his companion ploughed into the officer. What little wind had returned to his lungs was knocked away again in the blink of an eye as he hit the sidewalk.

"Get the baton!"

O'Shea headbutted the thug who'd tackled him, stunning both him and the thug. The thug's eyes crossed and he flopped to the side, allowing the officer to stand. Stars were bursting across his vision as he staggered to his feet. That was bright. The other three were back on their feet and moving in on him. If they got his baton, he'd be in trouble. There were few options left.

"10-13, 10-13, 110th and Park!" O'Shea cried, wishing the bells would stop ringing in his ears.

"C'mon, pig, let's see what you got!"

He saw them closing in and he knew he was in trouble. His baton came up, but he was outnumbered. Somebody howled as the oak baton cracked against bone, but there was no driving them off this time. All he could do was defend. He would never run.

One of them moved suddenly to the side and he couldn't react fast enough. Several hands seized his baton. In the brief, furious struggle for the weapon, O'Shea was forced toward an alley, away from the street. The worst place to go, but what could he do? One of the thugs got behind the officer and wrapped one arm around his neck. The battle for the baton was quickly over and the victors hauled their prize into the shadows.

Without his baton, O'Shea was all but defenceless. He took the first blow in the ribs and gagged. The next one dropped him to his knees. As the thugs took turns with the baton, the officer did his best to fight back. His efforts were rewarded with a hard crack on the ribs and a thug pinning his arms behind his back.

"What do you say, pig? Ain't so tough now?"

"Get his gun."

Oh yeah, his gun. How could he have forgotten that he was carrying it? Stupid! O'Shea spat out a crimson-tinged wad of phlegm at the feet of the thug in front of him, the one now holding his gun. He received a blow to the backs of his knees for his boldness, and he couldn't stay on his feet anymore. The thug holding O'Shea's gun sneered and drew out his own as well.

"Are ya sure you know how to use those?"

The skel smirked, studying the police weapon carefully. "I got a licence."

"Oh really? I bet you got a freebie on that, then."

"You wanna find out?"

O'Shea glared up at the thug, terrified but determined not to show it. "You ain't gonna use that."

"Yeah?" The thug pointed his personal gun at the ground and fired one round. Despite himself, O'Shea started at the loud report. The muzzle of the police-issue gun was cool against the beads of sweat on his forehead. "You willin' to bet on that?"

"Aye. You won't pull the trigger again." The officer stared straight ahead, praying that if this was the end of his watch, someone would look after his kids.

"And how do you know that?"

"Because if you do, there will be a bullet in you too." A new voice said.

Everyone froze. O'Shea forced himself to look over the thug's shoulder at the source of the voice. Relief flooded through him, washing away his terror. Yokas and Boscorelli. It was Yokas who'd spoken. Her gun was levelled at the thug's back, in line with his shoulder blades. One wrong move from him and he'd have a round in his spine.

"Drop the guns. Do it now."

Boscorelli moved in quickly, his own gun covering the other three skels. He knelt to pick up O'Shea's sidearm from where it had been placed and tucked the weapon into his jacket pocket, then kicked the other gun out of reach. "Back against the wall. All of you. I want to see your hands."

"Let's see 'em now!" Yokas barked, giving the thug who'd had O'Shea's gun a hearty shove toward his cronies. The Irishman let himself collapse onto his back, hurting everywhere and bleeding from his nose and mouth. He was definitely getting too old for this. Twenty-three years ago, he would have already been back on his feet and walking around. Now his body took a little bit longer to bounce back. Pathetic. _I'm getting out of shape, is all._

"You all right, O'Shea?"

"Yeah." He only got a sharp pain in his chest every time he drew a breath. Nothing special.

"Paddy wagon's on its way." Sullivan reported, as he and his partner arrived.

"Beautiful day for a scrap, eh, Sullivan?"

The other veteran managed a half-smile at O'Shea's transparent bravado. "Good to see you haven't changed, Andy."

O'Shea spat out another wad of red mucus and coughed. He pulled himself up into a sitting position, wishing they hadn't belted him round the head so hard. He'd be a little dizzy for awhile, but nothing to go home for.

"You sure you're all right?"

"Aye, I'm fine. Takes more than a few knocks from a couple amateurs to get me down and out." The bruised and bleeding officer heaved himself to his feet. Boscorelli handed him his gun, butt first.

"Thanks."

"Wagon's here. Come on, boys, hands behind your back. I believe you know the drill." Sullivan ordered. The four officers handcuffed each thug while O'Shea stood against the wall and struggled to hide how much it hurt to breathe.

"Hey, O'Shea. Wanna grab a coffee?"

"What?"

"I said, you wanna grab a coffee with us?" Boscorelli repeated.

Yokas looked at him closely. "You don't look good. I'm gonna call a bus."

"No. I'm okay." O'Shea said, bending over carefully to retrieve his baton from the ground.

"No you're not. Look at you, there's got to be at least one broken rib."

"I said I'm fine! Quit buggin' me like a bloody mother hen!"

"Only if you go to the hospital and get checked out," Yokas countered stubbornly.

"You might as well do it, she won't leave you alone otherwise." Her partner offered, crossing his arms across his chest.

O'Shea spat on the ground. "I ain't goin'. There's no need. So what if I got a busted rib or two? So long's I can do me job, that's all that matters."

"Until the next gang of toughs jumps you. Come on. We're taking you over to Angel of Mercy."

"I don't need a bloody doctor pokin' and proddin' me again. I'm fine, dammit." O'Shea snapped. "Ain't there some bastards or other that we're supposed to be running down?"

"Andy."

"No!" He repeated, glaring at the other officer, his eyes barely visible under the brim of his hat. "I appreciate the rescue, but this is personal business. Stay out of it if you don't want to get hurt."

"Andy, you don't get it. We're all out for justice for Malloy. But the only way we'll get it is by working together." Yokas said firmly. "You need to go the hospital. Those thugs pounded on you pretty good."

"There ain't nothing wrong with me!" The older cop snapped as he turned to walk stiffly toward the mouth of the alley. "A couple sore ribs and a black eye ain't worth noticin'."

"Don't you dare turn that corner, Andy."

"And what if I do?"

Yokas sighed, and he heard metal sliding on leather. "Andy, you're going to get checked out. You got lucky this time. We were right around the corner. What'll happen next time, when help isn't so close?"

"Then it'll be the end of me watch, won't it?" O'Shea turned around and stared down the barrel of a gun for the second time in fifteen minutes. "'Tis a right sad thing when an officer will draw willingly on another."

"I'm hardly willing, but you're not leaving me much choice."

The older officer walked slowly forward, his baton twitching in his hand. Yokas swallowed hard as he got closer. "Don't push it, O'Shea. You may not give a damn what happens to you, but you forget that others do."

"What, you mean others like you?" The older officer sneered. Boscorelli moved to step between the two, but O'Shea tapped him hard on the chest with the end of his baton. "Stand down, young sir, this ain't your concern."

"Look, O'Shea. I don't have any idea what you think you can accomplish by getting the crap kicked out of you by guys half your age, but it's a sure way to get killed."

"And you think I care about that?" The Irishman demanded. "You think I care that some young punk grabbed the weapon from me belt and held it to me head and was ready to pull the trigger? Do you think I really care that I could end up never goin' home to see me kids tonight? It don't matter. Nothing does. Nothin' but finding those, those _bastards_, who shot a man down on the street in broad daylight just 'cause he asked 'em a couple questions. That's all that matters!" O'Shea raised his free hand, balling it into a tight fist. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes as he struggled to find words to express the chaotic mess that he was inside. He dropped his fist back to his side and turned away as if to walk off, but turned back and licked his split lip, shaking his head. "Nothing matters. What's the big deal if I never make it home, anyway? Me kids'll only be orphans. At least Malloy's kids still got their mum. Shoulda been me, not him."

"It's not your fault, Andy."

The anger, frustration, and guilt surged back to life from the smouldering embers they had subsided to over the course of the day. "Like bloody hell it's not! The first rule we made was never to separate on shift. _Never separate._ Never." O'Shea stepped right up to Yokas so that the muzzle of her sidearm pressed against his Kevlar vest. "I ain't goin' to no hospital 'less it's under a sheet. He'd have been fine if I'd been there too. We'd still be walkin' the beat together, like the old days. We'd still be the pair of lads everybody relied on. _He'd still be here_, if I'd been there too!"

Yokas' hands trembled as she held her gun up. "Nobody can change the past, even though we wish it. All we can do is work to shape the future so that we don't make the same mistakes again."

"My biggest mistake was lettin' him go off alone."

"Andy – "

"Shut up. Just shut up! Your stupid apologies are worthless. I ain't goin' to the hospital, there ain't nothin' wrong with me. Why don't you go back to the vehicle that keeps you safe from the world and leave the real work to the lads who know what they're doing? I've no use for you. Either one of you. Just stay the bloody hell outta me way. Got it?" O'Shea snarled, lifting his baton. Silent tears leaked down Yokas' face at the harshness of O'Shea's words. The Irishman pushed her gun roughly aside with his baton. "Put that away. You don't know how to use it." He turned his back on the pair so he didn't have to see the hurt on either face any more. He always did that to people.

"Fine. Fine! Don't bother putting out a 10-13 again, then, 'cause nobody will answer it!" Yokas shouted after him, shoving her sidearm back into its holster.

O'Shea pretended he hadn't heard. Leave it to his stupid Irish pride to get in the way. He wished he hadn't ever opened his mouth. Yokas meant well and he was deeply grateful for the rescue. They'd been just in time. A second or two later and they'd been zipping him up in a body bag by now. He couldn't imagine how it stung to be told off for helping out another officer the way he'd told off poor Yokas. She hadn't deserved that. His breath caught in his throat for a second and he had to lean against a streetlamp for support. Maybe he should go to the hospital after all.


	17. The Ripple Effect

Yeah, I know Faith wouldn't draw her gun on another officer unless she felt she had to. But what can I say? O'Shea is as stubborn as they come.

More technical stuff in this one. Bear with me, okay? We'll get through it.

* * *

"We shouldn't have left him by himself."

Bosco rolled his eyes. "Come on, Yokas. There wasn't anything we could have done to stop him. You heard him, anyway. He wants nothing to do with us, so why bother? It's just wasting our time."

"I still don't feel right letting him alone. He's going to get into more trouble. Even Sully thinks so."

"And that proves what? That he doesn't know when to stop?"

Faith chuckled humourlessly. "That's rich, coming from you."

"What? I can't have an opinion because I'm just as bad as he is?"

"I didn't say that."

"But it's what you meant."

"So now you're reading my mind? Okay, Bosco, have it your way. You want to be a jerk, that's fine with me. Could you be so kind as to let me out at the next corner? I feel like taking a walk."

Bosco stared at her in disbelief. "What's gotten into you? First you pull your gun on O'Shea, then you jump all over me for a simple question. I don't get it. What's your problem, anyway?"

"My _problem_? Bosco, there is a badly injured cop walking around looking for trouble because we couldn't convince him to get medical attention. Okay? That's the problem."

Her partner shook his head adamantly. "Uh-uh. No way. There was no 'we' involved in that. That was all you. I'd let him do what he wants. It's his life, not mine."

Faith smiled bitterly. "Yeah, okay. This from the guy, who helped save O'Shea from a bullet between the eyes. Yeah, there really isn't a 'we' anywhere there."

"There isn't. That back there, that was part of the job. It's not written anywhere that I have to give a damn about the cop whose ass I'm saving."

"Is that how you felt about Luke, too? Now I get it. You did squat for him because you didn't care."

"What? Whoa, wait, hold on. That was different – "

"Different? Bosco, it was a man-down situation and you just _stood there!_"

"Great, now you're starting to sound like O'Shea."

"Yeah, well, maybe you should listen to what he says, sometimes."

Bosco gritted his teeth and stomped on the brakes. "You want to take a walk? Fine. Be my guest. Sidewalk's over there, be careful crossing the street."

"We're in the middle of the road!"

"Do you think, that I care?"

The two partners glared at each other while the horns blared from the line of traffic piling up behind them. "Fine. There are better things to do with my time than waste it talking at a rock." Faith snapped as she flung open the passenger door. "Give it a rest!" She shouted at the drivers honking their horns in irritation. The guy in the first car made a gesture with his hand and she put her right hand on the butt of her gun, slamming shut the cruiser door. The driver took note of this and decided to behave himself. Bosco pulled the RMP forward without looking back. Faith jogged out of the road, wishing she'd kept her temper. It was happening too often to too many of them. Malloy's death had pushed them all to the edge. _And some of us over it._ She remembered the confused emotions on O'Shea's face as he stared down the barrel of her gun. He was going to snap if something didn't happen to relieve at least some of the pressure. The only problem was it was up to them to make that something happen.

"Dammit." Faith muttered, wearily tramping toward 110th Street. O'Shea couldn't have gotten too far from there, not as badly as he was hurt. If anyone needed someone to back them up, he did.

* * *

Stacks of papers teetered dangerously on the edge of the desk, threatening to scatter all over the floor with the slightest breeze from a passing detective or visitor. Asheby was barely visible behind the mess, hunched over a collection of pictures as he was. His partner was across the room, studiously recording the names of the five thugs Sullivan and Davis had brought in. News of the beating those five had given O'Shea had already spread through the station house like juicy gossip. The poor guy kept winding up on the wrong end of things. Maybe it wouldn't go quite so hard for him if he didn't actively pick fights. Asheby set aside the photographs and closed his eyes, wincing at the rough sandpaper feeling of his eyelids. How long had it been since he'd slept in his own bed? What, was it a day or two now? Too long. He needed to get home and feed the cat. Poor feline was probably starving. His stomach grumbled and he remembered the last meal he'd had was the Chinese take-out Wickes had brought in earlier that morning. That had done a number on his digestive tract. _Note to self: avoid Chinese take-out._

"Got anything?"

"Not yet. Let me run 'em through the system first." Wickes replied, plopping into his chair. "The guy O'Shea was originally looking for, Adam Seavey, was released from Riker's nine days ago. Either he's right back to his old tricks, or it's his ingrained reaction to run from the cops."

"I'm gonna bet he's back in the game. Not much changes people for the better at Riker's."

"Such optimism and faith in our correctional system. Wish I knew how to get the lab guys to work faster. Even with the top priority tag on everything to do with the Malloy case, it's taking for ever to get results and reports back."

"Well, it does take a little bit of time to run the tests."

Wickes rolled his eyes. "Thank you, Professor."

"What are we supposed to do while we wait, anyway? There's not much that I hate more than sitting around with my thumb up my ass, waiting for other people to do their jobs." Asheby grumbled.

"Your patience is admirable."

"I try." The taller detective shuffled through a bundle of crime scene reports, searching for something to occupy himself. "I just had that report from the ME, where'd it go?"

"You mean this?" Wickes tugged a paper from the stack on his desk. The stack teetered for several long seconds, and Asheby, his eyes going wide, lunged forward in an attempt to save the pile and banged his shin on the metal corner of the desk. Papers and photographs fluttered everywhere as the detective wrapped both hands around his shin bone.

"Son-of-a-bitch, that hurts! Damn it all to hell. This day is one endless series of screw-ups!" Asheby exclaimed. "Oh what the f– "

"Mind your language, Mark. There are civilians in the building." Wickes interrupted, a little surprised by his partner's uncharacteristic profanity.

"Shut up." His partner growled, rising unsteadily from his chair to retrieve the scattered reports. Wickes only shrugged. The battered printer on the table next to the next churned to life, spitting out two sheets of paper before wheezing back to its less-stressful standby mode.

"Here's something for you, O Potty-Mouthed One. Jerome Kimball, long-time dealer, frequent visitor at Riker's Island. He was released on bail pending trial on an assault charge."

"Great. Does he own any guns?"

"That would be a good thing to know. How about you get right on that and find out?"

"And what will you be doing in the meantime?"

"Ordering Chinese."

Asheby made a face. "Again? How about you check to see if this guy owns any guns, and I order something that won't give me heartburn?"

"As long as it's not from that Italian place you like so much."

"Nah. There's a Greek place down the street that just opened up. Lieutenant Bishop says it's pretty good."

"And you listen to a guy who's not even in our precinct. There's logic for you."

"What? Sergeant Jones has no sense of taste. He's useless."

"I heard that!" The sergeant called out from his office. Asheby grinned and made a break for the door. His partner shook his head in resignation. Might as well get started on that records check.

* * *

"You know O'Shea?"

"Not well, no. He's been on The Job longer than me."

Davis snorted a laugh. "Longer than you? I didn't know that was possible."

"Funny, Davis. He was one of the guys us rookies looked up to, him and Malloy, even though the two of them were really still rookies themselves. They already had a reputation for being scrappy. And man, were they ever!" Sully grinned and shook his head. "Those two could be found wherever there was a brawl. But they knew their job and did it well."

"I don't get it. Why's he even working this shift? He's a day-shifter, I thought."

"Losing your best friend will do that to a guy. Andy and Luke were partners for twelve years before Andy had his accident. They got split up by some idiot higher up when Andy's medical leave lasted more than six months. Luke was paired with a rookie and that was the end of the Irish duo."

"Accident?"

"Your dad never told you about that? Man, that was a bad day for everybody. Real big structure fire down on 96th and 3rd. We had guys in the building searching for people before the fire department showed up. Andy and Luke were in a stairwell between the first and second floors when something on the first floor blew up. Luke got lucky; he dove up the stairs and used them for cover. Poor Andy, though. The blast of air ripped part of a steam pipe loose from the wall and it knocked him right through the window." Sully shook his head. "He landed right on top of an RMP. Broke his back. But he was so tough he got up and staggered over to the nearest bus. He was out of work for a year and a half. That's when Luke got assigned a new partner. Wasn't worth waiting for Andy to come back, or so somebody decided. That was December, 1987."

"And they've never been partnered up again? That was… fifteen years ago."

Sully shrugged. "Andy got stuck with light duty for a couple of years after he came back, then he was bumped up to vehicle patrol. He spent, oh, eight years doing that before going back to the foot beat. He's been there since."

Davis took a bite of the hot dog the vendor handed him. "He got any kids?"

"Yeah, three."

"And that's it? No wife, girlfriend, or something like that?"

Sully's face clouded over and he squirted mustard onto his own hot dog before replying. "He did have a wife. Rebecca, I think her name was. Pretty woman, and the biggest hearted person I've ever met. She used to come by the station house every Wednesday in the middle of shift with something for us, usually a box of fresh cookies or something. Andy isn't the touchy-feely type, but whenever she came to the house, he was right there with a hug and a kiss for her. We always teased him about it, but only because we were all jealous. It wasn't hard to see how much he loved her." His eyes became wistful. "We should all be as lucky as he was. She was one of the few women back then who understood what it meant to be a cop. Should've been one herself, too. Guess she could be just as hard-headed as Andy. But it helped get them both through the months of his therapy. We helped out as much as we could, but it was all them, the whole way. Man, they were two peas in a pod. Shame what happened to her."

"What? She leave him?"

Another silence took over before the older officer spoke again. "No, not the way you think. They were too close for that. Inseparable. Like he and Luke were when they were on the beat together." Sully walked slowly back over to the RMP. "It was that day. From what Andy said years back, she'd gotten a job as a secretary for some businessman or something. She was there when it happened. Poor Andy. He barrelled right in to get to her floor and get her out." He shook his head sadly. "He wasn't much of a drinker before then, but he hit the bottle hard after that shift. Only Luke was able to talk to him, for all the good it did. Andy damn near killed himself trying to find her up there, and he came awful close to losing his job later on. Only his kids, I think, brought him out of it."

"Man. And now Malloy's gone too."

"Yeah. There's nobody left to keep him in check. He's acting just like he did when he was a rookie, except he's way too old to be crossing swords with guys half his age. He's gonna get himself killed, and I really don't think he cares."

Davis looked at his partner. "So what do we do? Yokas and Bosco probably aren't with him anymore and it's almost impossible to track down a guy on foot beat."

"We'll check over at Angel of Mercy. As tough as that old Irishman is, he got thumped on pretty good. He might turn up there."

* * *

"Christmas is early this year." Wickes called out in a sing-song voice as he breezed into the station house, a thick folder in his hand.

"That sounds good."

"It is. The lab boys put a rush on the cartridge casing we sent over from where O'Shea got the crap beaten out of him and compared it to the casings found near Malloy's body. Perfect match. We got our murder weapon."

Asheby smiled. "Great. What else?"

"I ran Jerome Kimball through the database. There is one gun registered in his name, a 9mm Beretta. The one he was carrying when Sullivan, Davis, and Company picked him up. Right now he's looking real good as the shooter."

"And?"

"And. Adam Seavey's prints were pulled off the Beretta that was used to take out Benny and Carver. I just had a warrant signed for his arrest for that. That gun is registered to a Joey Miles, but he's up at Sing-Sing doing twenty-five to life for murder."

"Very good news. Now let's hear the bad news."

Wickes shook his head. "Nothing more on the hit list Don sent over. I'm willing to bet that Seavey was one of the two who jumped Staples. Until we track him down, we won't know who the other guy was."

"That's all?"

"Not quite. Technically, Seavey is still a juvenile. We need to find a parent or guardian and get permission to talk to him when we catch him."

"Are you serious? He's only a kid?"

"Sixteen years old and wanted for four murders. Doesn't get much better than that."

"I guess not." Asheby whistled. "And I thought I was a troublemaker when I was sixteen. Putting chalk dust in the teacher's coffee is nothing compared to what kids do these days."

"What can I say? It's a different world."

"Man. Sixteen."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. But a murderer's a murderer, no matter how old or young he is."

"That logic sucks, I don't like it. He's just a kid!"

Wickes shrugged. "A kid who stuck a knife into a guy's back and then took off."

"So he got scared."

"Are you making excuses for what he did?"

"No, I'm just sayin' what probably happened."

"You wanna know what happened? Take another look at the crime scene pictures. Staples didn't have a chance once they got behind him. Heat of the moment and all that crap aside, these two knew full well what they were doing. There's no excusing that."

"Whatever." Asheby gave up. "Can we tie Seavey directly to that scene or not?"

"The prints on the drug packets aren't enough to say for sure."

"What about the knife?"

Wickes' eyes widened. "The knife. Of course. The knife. How could I have forgotten to check on that?"

"Seems that you're doing a lot of that lately." Asheby quipped.

"Okay, um, I'm gonna run back down to the lab. Why don't you, hmm, why don't you check on our good friend O'Shea and see how he's doing? I'll be right back." Wickes said, even as he hustled for the door again. Asheby rolled his eyes at his partner's bad memory and picked up the phone.

* * *

"Are you going to ignore me all night?"

Bosco said nothing as he buttoned up his shirt, keeping his eyes on the badge pinned to the uniform in his locker.

"Bosco, come on. We're partners, remember?"

"I would never have guessed."

Faith sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. It's been a rough day. What else do you want me to say?"

"You want to follow O'Shea around and make sure he behaves himself, you go right ahead. I don't mind working alone."

"Bosco."

"See you tomorrow."

"Bosco." She grabbed his arm as he tried to brush past her. "Come on. We're all shook up because Malloy was killed. The only way we're going to get catch the bastards who are behind this is by working together."

Her partner's expression was unforgiving. "I tried that. You'd rather chase after some hard-headed Mick who lost his partner. Too bad for him. I even tried to be nice to him, and he gave me the third degree for it. What's the point in trying to help him? He doesn't want it. We'd be better off just leaving him alone and letting him do his thing."

"And what happens when he gets himself killed? Then what? I've already let down one cop. His funeral is in three days. I'm not about to let down another. No way."

"Do what you have to do. Just, just leave me out of it. I don't care." Bosco pulled his arm out of her grip.

"Bosco, wait – "

"I don't care. Whatever."

The locker room door closed behind him with a click. Faith slammed her locker shut in frustration. Was it simply impossible for anything to go right anymore?

* * *

The slide of his service weapon clicked back and locked under the pressure of his fingers, spitting out the live bullet held in the chamber. He watched it spin end over end, first upward then down toward the floor. Without even thinking about it, he caught the falling bullet and pressed down on the tab that released the gun's magazine. It slid out of the weapon and he grabbed it. The ceiling lights glinted off the brass casing of the bullet at the top of the clip, reflecting a distorted image of his thumb as he forced the spring at the bottom of the magazine down so the loose bullet could be slid into place. He placed the unloaded gun on the top shelf of his locker and tucked the magazine back into its case on his gunbelt. Another shift over, and nothing new from the detectives.

His worn leather jacket proved a trial to slip on. It hurt to stretch his arms too far in any direction. It hurt to move much at all. That Morales woman at the hospital had jabbed at his ribs as though he had been lying to her when he said they might have been broken. He hated doctors, and that was one of the reasons why. They never believed what he told them. After making him wait on that hard examination table, she had come back with the X-rays and said that all he had were a couple badly bruised ribs. It wasn't serious enough to warrant an over-night stay, which he would have refused anyway, but she prescribed some medication for the pain. Right. It would just sit on the shelf in the bathroom next to the fifteen year-old medication he had been given for his back. Pain medication was for sissies.

He picked up his wallet and keys from the shelf and carefully tucked them into his pocket. Jamie would throw a fit if he was too late getting home. The boy hated babysitting for more than a few hours. Hopefully his truck would start tonight. One of the day-shift officers had replaced the battery for him. Everyone was doing their best to help him out, which he appreciated, but Malloy's family needed support the most.

"Hey, Andy." Sullivan trotted across the parking lot to intercept the other officer. "Want to grab a bite to eat or something?"

O'Shea shook his head. "No. Gotta get home to the kids. They're probably still up and tearin' apart the house."

"Yeah." Sullivan grinned slightly, but the expression slid from his face quickly. "Look, about today – "

"What happened today is nothing more than we know can happen," O'Shea cut in. "It's one of the risks we take. You should know that by now, Sullivan. I ain't gonna do anything that I haven't been doin' for years."

"Andy, you're not twenty-three anymore. You can't take a beating like the one you got today as well as you would have back then. You're too old – we're all too old for that crap. Leave the rough stuff to the young pups and just roll on to retirement."

O'Shea curled his lip. "I won't step back one bit. I never have, and I sure ain't gonna start now. There's a good man and fine officer lying in state in some God-forsaken morgue because I wasn't on me guard. Hell will freeze over before I let the scum who murdered him get away."

"And what good will getting yourself killed do for Luke? What good will it do for your kids? For God's sake, Andy, think about them! How well do you think they'll handle losing the only parent they have left? Your youngest is what, seven?"

"What business is my family of yours!" O'Shea burst out. "They're strong, each of them. Just like their mother. You want to know something, Sullivan? Until you get a family of your own, and friends you can trust not just with your life, but your family's as well, you will never know what it's like to lose either one. Never. Malloy's dead because I let him down. It's, it's my _duty_ to see to it that those blackguards who took away my best mate pay for it. Nobody will get away with shooting a police officer dead on the sidewalk. I'm going to find those bastards, and they're gonna wish they'd never seen either one of us. I don't care who gets in the way."

Sullivan's face reflected his own pain. "But that's what gets you into trouble! You go at every skel and dealer out there with everything you've got, even when they haven't done anything. Sure, that worked back when we started, but that method doesn't work anymore. Don't you get it?"

"The times have changed, Sullivan. That doesn't mean that I have to." O'Shea said, stepping around Sullivan and walking the short distance to his truck. It was all well and good for him to say that. He'd gotten soft as the years passed. He wasn't like him, Malloy, and others anymore. Sullivan had been just like them in the beginning, but these days he just let the world roll on by. Maybe it was time for that kind of cop to move on to other things.

His midsection was throbbing mercilessly by the time he reached the top of the stairs. He had to rest against the wall before slipping the key into the lock. Man, he was really out of shape. The interior of the apartment was strangely quiet despite the lights being left on. Books and toys were strewn all over the floor. O'Shea picked his way carefully across the living room to the tiny kitchen. Dirty dishes were left piled in the sink, and there was dried spaghetti sauce caked on the stove. Jamie didn't like cleaning up after himself either. He opened the refrigerator and winced at the stab of pain in his side. At least there was still milk left. Hopefully enough for the kids' breakfast in the morning. He switched off the lights in the kitchen and living room, after picking up the mess on the floor. The kids were probably in bed. Thank God for small miracles.

O'Shea eased open the door to the kids' bedroom. Jamie was sprawled on his bed, facedown, the covers tangled at the end of the mattress. His father stepped softly across the floor, tugged the sheet and blanket out from under the teenager's legs, and drew them up over his sleeping form before turning his attention to the pair of beds on the other side of the room. Heather was curled up in a ball in the middle of her bed. The thin blanket she favoured so much was clenched tightly in her fists. O'Shea tucked the sheet and blanket closer over her shoulders and bent down slowly to kiss her round, freckled cheek. Her sister lay on her back, a well-worn teddy bear half-crushed under her. He tugged the stuffed animal free and tucked it under her arm, then bent down to kiss her cheek as well. Bless their little hearts. They looked so precious when they were asleep.

The officer moved quietly from the room and padded down the hall. It felt good to sit down on the edge of his bed and kick off his shoes. Everything hurt and he was tired. But the constant pain in his side wasn't going to let him sleep. Closing his eyes only made it seem worse. He sighed and got back to his feet. Maybe some ice water would help. Ice water and one or two of pills Morales had given him. He must be getting soft too, but he wanted sleep more than he wanted to tough it out. Man, that cold water felt good going down. He padded back to his room, carefully slipping his jacket off as he went. It felt even better to collapse onto the mattress.

He thought his eyes had only just closed when he felt something heavy crawl across the bed. Must be one of the girls. "Hey you. Woke you up, huh?"

"No."

"Bad dream?"

"I miss Mommy." Sarah cuddled up against his side, her stuffed bear squashed between them. Thankfully, the unexpected pressure didn't hurt nearly as much. Maybe there was some worth to those pills after all. O'Shea drew in a steadying breath and stroked the little girl's dark curls.

"I do too." He drew his daughter up closer to his shoulder so he could kiss her forehead. "I do too. Just go to sleep and you can see her in your dreams."

"Really?"

"Yeah. That's where I see her sometimes."

"I'll say hello to her for you Daddy."

The heavy weight of sadness and regret settled over him. He smiled gravely in the darkness and wrapped his arm around the little girl curled up next to him. "Thank you."


	18. Fire

Sorry it's taken so long to update. I've spent a lot of time looking stuff up and changing things in this chapter. More than a little fine-tuning happened to this one and I hope it's turned out okay. Please correct anything that appears out-of-place.

As to the question about the title of the last chapter, I chose it because of the nature of the chapter itself. One action affects countless others, like when you toss a pebble into a pond. The ripples keep getting bigger as they move further out in the water, even though the pebble that created them is relatively small. I simply took that idea and applied it here, although the pebble in this case is more like a boulder. The death of an officer is a memorable event and the consequences of that event can be felt long after. Hence, "the ripple effect".

I apologise for the "breaks" that separate each piece of the chapter. It was the only way to mark the shift in scenes.

Please enjoy this chapter. I hope to update more frequently now that the semester has started.

* * *

The smell of coffee and cigarette smoke filled her nostrils as she took a seat at the long conference table next to a detective with a tattoo of something just visible under his rolled-up sleeve. There were over a dozen men and women crowded around the table, notepads and coffee mugs in front of them. They were detectives for the most part, but there were several officers present. Herself, Bosco, O'Shea, Sully, Davis, and a couple plain clothes officers she didn't recognise. The fact that O'Shea was working another double was hardly surprising. She hadn't spoken to him yet, but she knew he would resent the idea that he needed a partner.

One of the detectives leading the investigation coughed loudly and stood, and the low murmur of side chatter came to a gradual end. "Okay. We're here for one purpose, and anyone who doesn't know what that is should be sent back to school. First off, I'd like to introduce our three lucky volunteers on loan from Narcotics. Lowell, Johnson, and Ramirez. ACU has also graciously provided the services of three officers: Jenkins, Duncan, and Brown. We also have Sergeants Jones, Christopher, Cruz, and Scalioni sitting in today, and we can hope to have the benefit of their input as well. Welcome aboard, gentlemen and ladies." Wickes said, pointing out each person as he named them. "Now, that finished, on to the next piece of business. The lab at One Police Plaza has just sent over the latest status report on the meagre evidence we have given them. I have copies of that report here, if you would please pass it around." He handed a stack of papers to the hefty man seated on his left.

"Let's start from the beginning. Our first victim was Keith Staples, a known Ecstasy dealer who operated around Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard. He was found dead last Friday near the corner of MLK and Madison Avenue. He had been stabbed once in the back with a four-inch fixed blade knife, this one here." Asheby held up the weapon. "Also found at the scene was a brown paper bag containing eight packets, amounting to roughly four ounces of street-grade Ecstasy. Staples' fingerprints were not found on the bag or any of the packets, and he was not carrying a wallet or identification. Identification was made by dental records and by Officer Boscorelli, whose brother is acquainted with the victim. Michael Boscorelli is also a known Ecstasy dealer and user who was arrested two days later on Sunday based on information gained from a tip. He was questioned but revealed nothing and was released without charges. He has since dropped out of sight."

"Staples' brother was the closest living relative, and upon notification of his brother's death, promptly travelled to the city. Marine Gunnery Sergeant Joseph Staples was arrested on Monday for unprovoked assault on three men who he alleged to be dealers with information about his brother. None of the men pressed charges against Gunnery Sergeant Staples, but were more than willing to speak with us about what they knew of a growing Ecstasy ring. An informant who has provided accurate information to us in the past was brought in for questioning on Monday, but did not provide anything until Tuesday, after returning to us willingly. According to him, the two skels that killed Staples were new to the particular ring that our informant was a part of. They had disappeared after offing Staples. Our informant gave us nothing else useful."

"How can we be sure that he wasn't keeping something hidden?" Sergeant Cruz wanted to know.

"A good question, and I have a good answer. Our informant has given us invaluable information in the past, and it has always been the complete skinny on operations and players. If something happened on the street, he knew about it." Wickes replied. "There was no real incentive for him to talk to us, if that's what your next question is. In fact, it was actually somewhat dangerous for him to spend more than five minutes in the station house."

Asheby took a long drink from his coffee mug to moisten his throat. "The next day, Wednesday, Officers Yokas and Boscorelli picked up a dealer who our informant had named. He was questioned by myself and Detective Wickes and told us some interesting things about the new bigwig on the Ecstasy circuit around Manhattan. Our informant, the dealers that he named for us, Michael Boscorelli, and Keith Staples are all on this guy's payroll, if you will. He also provided us with a longer list of names than what our informant gave us, in exchange for Detective Wickes' agreement to speak with Narcotics about knocking off a charge or two that were being brought against him." Asheby smiled. "As far as I am aware, that conversation did take place, but little benefit for the dealer came out of it."

The officers and detectives around the table chuckled. Wickes got to his feet as his partner resumed his seat. "We ran all the names through BCI and compiled each hit into a file that was turned over to Lieutenant Swersky. The mugshots of everyone who had a record on file were distributed to each officer on every shift. Maybe a little too much effort for just one murdered drug dealer, but it was a chance to nab some big fish. However, Detective Asheby and myself were called to a schoolyard later that day, where two Dolphin dealers had been shot to death. One of the victims was our informant. He paid a high price for speaking with us. Eyewitnesses at the scene told us that there was only one shooter, but were unable to provide an accurate description of him. He did leave behind the murder weapon, a 9mm Beretta." Wickes held up the gun. "Fingerprints from this weapon matched those belonging to Adam Seavey, a sixteen year-old thug who's been to Riker's twice already. Detective Asheby and I put together a photo line-up and had each witness to the schoolyard shooting take a look at it. All but two of them identified him as the gunman."

"Why not all of them?"

"The two who did not recognise Seavey said they had been crossing the yard when the shooting took place. All they were able to see was the crowd around the bodies." Asheby said.

"We took the information from Dominic, the dealer Yokas and Boscorelli brought in, and used it to obtain a search warrant for an apartment on 3rd Avenue, with a provision to arrest any and all persons within the limits of the apartment at the time of the search. A team of ESU officers accompanied us to the apartment and secured the area for us to go in. Each person present was taken into custody and questioned about the Dolphin ring and who was operating it on the borough-level. Every answer was the same. A guy by the name of Big T."

"That was Thursday. Friday, as you all know, was a very stressful day. Eyewitnesses at the scene told us that Officer Malloy had stopped two guys on the corner of 110th and 1st to talk – about what, we are not sure. It's possible he recognised them from one of the mugshots we circulated around the precinct. One of the two pulled out a 9mm Beretta similar to the one found at the schoolyard and shot him twice in the chest. Both of them fled the scene. Once again, we put together a photo line-up for the eyewitnesses. They picked out Adam Seavey as one of the two. His companion was not unidentified at that point. The two casings found at the scene were rushed to the lab with a top priority tag on the evidence bag.

"Lab technicians were able to retrieve several partial prints from the packets and the brown bag, which were then run through the database. The two sets of fingerprints turned up a number of hits for each, and Detective Wickes and I asked Officers Yokas, Boscorelli, and O'Shea to track down each subject on the list. We had just received the list on Saturday, and called the three of them in. Officer O'Shea was the first to track down Adam Seavey at his last known residence. Seavey was present there, and ran at the officer's entry to the residence, which resulted in a foot pursuit that ended on 110th Street. A group of thugs surrounded and disarmed the officer before assaulting him with his own nightstick. The timely arrival of Officers Yokas and Boscorelli prevented the thugs from shooting O'Shea. One shot had been fired from one thug's personal gun, and the gun and casing were rushed to the lab. The ballistics tests matched that casing to the two casings recovered from the Malloy scene. A records check on the gun, a 9mm Beretta, showed it registered to Jerome Kimball, the one who was carrying it when he was arrested. There is no evidence at this point to believe that he was _not_ the one who shot and killed Officer Malloy."

"So we now have two prime suspects. It's not that much of a stretch to believe that Kimball was present when Staples was killed, but there is no evidence as yet to support that theory. Right now we only have him for Luke Malloy's murder."

"But it gets even better," Wickes said. "Detective Asheby and I called each major city around the country, asking if there was any dealer in their files who went by the name of Big T. We got a hit with the Los Angeles Police Department, where Big T had once operated. He was a dealer there for a number of years. But, prior to that, he was a patrolman for the LAPD. His real name is Anthony Morris, shield number 3627, fired from the department after two weeks on the job for selling Ecstasy from his cruiser. Unfortunately for the good people of the LAPD, Morris had been the top student of his class at the Academy."

"Meaning he knows how the police operate firsthand, and knows what to do and not to do – making him a very slippery and dangerous person to have loose on the street. Why he packed up and moved here is unknown. The LAPD was more than willing to provide us with Morris' record jacket and rapsheet. There are three outstanding warrants for his arrest, for the sale of illegal narcotics, armed robbery, and assault on an officer with a deadly weapon."

The group around the conference table shivered as if with one mind. Asheby nodded grimly. "That's right. This isn't just some backwater bum we're up against. It's an Academy-educated, police-trained drug dealer. He knows the ropes, he knows about forensics, he knows how to cover his tracks. That explains why his people only handled those Ecstasy packets by the edges, why they threw away the Beretta at the schoolyard. He's no fool, and catching him will take some very skilled manoeuvring on our part."

"This gathering of people is our best chance at coming up with some sort of plan to lure Morris out of hiding. We don't know where he is, or how he issues his orders, but we're fairly sure he's within the borders of the precinct."

"How'd you figure?" The hefty man at the head of the table grunted.

"We had Morris' name run through the local cellphone companies. There are no phones registered to his name."

"Which means squat. Anybody can give a false name."

"True, but we think he's smarter than that. He probably uses couriers to carry his orders to whoever needs to know. Much more secure than any cell phone."

"Do we have anything on this Jerome Kimball?"

"He was out on bail pending trial for assault. With him back in jail on a murder charge, it's not looking good for him. It's highly likely he'll talk."

"Adam Seavey. Is his residence under surveillance?"

"There is a team sitting on his place right now. He hasn't shown up there yet."

The woman introduced as Brown clicked the end of her pen against the table. "I'm curious about the weapon used to kill Staples. It was a knife, correct?"

"That's right. No prints were recovered from the weapon."

"So Seavey is only tied to that scene by the partial prints on the bag and packets?"

"Correct."

"That means unless we get a confession from him, we really can't place him at the scene around the time that Staples was killed."

"Correct."

Brown looked troubled. "There is a small mountain of forensic evidence gathered in front of us from each of these scenes, and yet we cannot pin anyone conclusively to any one of them."

"Therein lies our problem, and the reason we organised this task force." Lieutenant Swersky said. "The more resources we have available to us, the more likely it is we can get a line on these bastards."

"Yes, indeed, Lieutenant. I can understand that. But there is little that can be done without a confession from somebody." Brown commented.

"Yes, indeed, Officer Brown. I think I'm fully capable of realising that." Swersky replied frostily.

"How many suspects do we have in custody?" Lowell from Narcotics asked, neatly steering the topic away from a verbal sparring match. "That would be an ideal place to start."

"We have Kimball and his four buddies, from yesterday's fight on 110th and Park. I wouldn't think any one of them would mind talking at this point." Asheby answered.

Faith skimmed quickly back over the notes she had taken. "We've also got the eyewitnesses from the schoolyard and the market. We should put together another photo line-up for them."

"Right, thank you, Officer Yokas. I'd forgotten about that."

"So how do we split this up?" Ramirez wanted to know.

Asheby took a quick headcount. "We've got enough people here for three teams, plus the six of us who'll be co-ordinating here at the house."

"Team one: Ramirez, Duncan, Sergeant Cruz. Team two: Brown, Johnson, Sergeant Scalioni. Team three: Jenkins, Lowell, Sergeant Christopher. Lieutenant Swersky, Sergeant Jones, Detectives Harris, Spindelli, Asheby, and I will run things from here and will provide relief and back up for the teams on the ground. Officers Boscorelli, Yokas, O'Shea, Sullivan, and Davis will provide whatever muscle we may need on the street. Team one will help keep tabs on Seavey's residence and see about getting a warrant for the place. Team two will conduct the interrogations of the five from yesterday, and team three will handle the witnesses and the line-ups."

"We have fliers with Morris' mugshot here, ready for distribution to street officers and the general public. If anybody calls in with a hit on this guy, do not get on the air with it. Landline only. We'll notify ESU right away and get a team rolling to the scene. Nobody, and I mean nobody, is to go after Morris alone." Swersky said, with a pointed glance at Bosco first, and then O'Shea.

"And a reminder: Luke Malloy's funeral is planned for Tuesday afternoon. Whether we have solved this or not, we will take that day off to pay our respects to a good man fallen." Asheby added. "His family has requested donations to the NYPD Memorial in lieu of flowers."

"Any questions?" Swersky asked. No one spoke. "Very well. Good luck, then, and be careful. I've already lost one officer. No need to lose any more."

The gathering broke up with a burst of subdued chatter. Faith turned to speak to O'Shea but found him already out the door. She followed.

"Andy, hold on a minute."

"I've nothing to say to you."

She seized his sleeve and pulled him to a stop. "Well, I've got something to say to you. I'm sorry for drawing on you the other day. I didn't think I had much of a choice. You certainly weren't giving me one."

O'Shea's face was expressionless, his eyes cool and distant. "Yeah, and?"

"And, you can't go without a partner, even a temporary one."

"What about your Italian shadow? What's-his-name over there."

"He'll manage on his own. He's not the one walking around injured."

"I've done it before, I can do it again."

Faith sighed. "Do you _really_ want to make a big deal of this in the middle of the house? You heard Lieu. There's no need to lose another good officer for any reason, be it stupid pride or otherwise."

"You're not gonna lay off, are you?"

"Not anymore than you are."

"Fine." O'Shea gave up. "You think you can keep up? Be my guest, then. I ain't waitin' for nobody."

* * *

The phone on his desk jangled for the third time, drawing his wavering attention away from the notes he was attempting to decipher. With a sigh born of too many nights with little to no sleep, Asheby reached for the handset and hoped that it was the lab calling with good news.

"Five-Five Precinct, Detective Asheby."

Wickes plopped into his chair on the other side of the twin desks and slid open the top desk drawer. He fished out a half-crushed pack of gum and was in the process of wrestling a piece from the folds of foil wrapper when his partner suddenly perked up. The taller man cast about for a pen before remembering there was one tucked behind his ear. Wickes raised an eyebrow, folding the piece of gum into his mouth. His partner held up one finger, the signal to wait, and went back to madly scribbling down information. With a grateful "Thank you", he replaced the phone receiver and let out a happy whoop that turned heads his way.

"We got him!"

"Got who?"

"Morris. He was seen going into a residence down on Lexington Avenue." Asheby picked up the phone again and dialled swiftly. "Get a hold of our street team and have them respond to the scene. Yes," he said as someone picked up on the other end of the line. "I'd like to speak to Lieutenant Frye, please."

**

* * *

**

His pace was fast for an injured man, forcing Faith to jog to keep up. The phone call he had just received had sent him striding away down the sidewalk without a second's hesitation. His desire for retribution for his dead partner was driving him like a living force. She had a feeling it was going to get them both into trouble.

The detectives had gotten a line on Anthony Morris, the dealer behind the rash of violence on the street. He was reportedly seen entering a house near the corner of 118th and Lexington. Faith and O'Shea had been only a few blocks from that intersection when his cell phone rang. He answered it, relayed the message to her, and had immediately abandoned his half-empty coffee cup. It was all too clear that he wanted a piece of Morris before the detectives got to him.

O'Shea stopped two buildings from the house to study the movement on the sidewalk. Anything suspicious would have him reaching for his gun. Faith trotted up behind him, reaching for her radio. She wasn't planning on going into the house without ample backup.

"Five-Five Edward Foot to Central. We're on scene. Status on ESU team."

"Ten-four, Eddie Foot. ESU en route, ETA ten minutes."

"Ten minutes? Too bloody long!"

"Hold on, there's somebody coming out the front door!" Faith pulled O'Shea out of sight behind a pile of boxes. A lean, dark-skinned man paused at the top of the stairs leading up to the door, pulling up the zipper of his jacket. He looked up and down the street before starting down the steps. O'Shea trembled, his hand resting on the butt of his gun. Faith reached out to grab him and pull him back as he moved forward, but her fingers closed on empty air.

"Stop, police!"

The black man's head snapped around toward the source of the shouted command and his eyes went wide at the sight of the officer coming toward him. At once, the man darted back to the safety of the house.

"Andy!"

O'Shea unfastened the strap of his holster and drew his weapon. The time for warnings was over. Adrenaline was pounding through him, lending him speed and blinding him to the dangers of entering a house with a suspect inside. Faith ran after him, knowing that there would be trouble for sure now. O'Shea was remarkably like Bosco. Always charging right in without waiting for backup to arrive. Men could be so dumb sometimes.

"Andy, wait!"

The Irishman was already half-way up the stairs, well past her reach. He was on a mission and nothing was going to get in his way. Yokas swore as she sprinted up the stairs after him. Her temporary partner was going from room to room, checking each one quickly. He was ten or eleven feet ahead of her and moving with the speed of a desperate man. If anything unexpected happened, he would be beyond her ability to help. The echo of his boots on the hardwood floor sounded eerie in the otherwise silent house. Morris was in here somewhere and O'Shea was going to find him.

"Andy!" Yokas hissed, moving as quietly as she could after him. "Wait a minute."

He glanced back briefly. His eyes said clearly what he didn't put into words. _"Keep up or leave."_ She rested her thumb on the safety catch of her gun and crept carefully along the hallway. This was going to be rough. And what in the hell was that smell, anyway? It was stinging her eyes and nose. O'Shea paused at the closed door at the end of the hall, lifting his left hand from his gun. Yokas nodded at the signalled order and slid along the wall until her elbow brushed against the doorframe. Her partner faced the door, his right foot coming up.

"Police, get down!"

A strong, pungent odour hit the two officers as they burst into the room, much stronger than the smell in the hallway. The room was empty except for a lone gas can sitting against one wall. They lowered their weapons in disappointment and relief. Morris wasn't there.

"What the hell is that smell?" O'Shea demanded, looking around the room.

"That's gasoline, Officer Fool." A sneering voice said. Both officers brought their guns back up sharply, aiming at the source of the voice. Anthony Morris smirked down at them through a hole cut in the ceiling.

"Clever bastard," Yokas breathed.

"Ten times more so than any of you."

"You son-of-a-bitch. You killed me partner!" The fury had returned to O'Shea's voice. "I'm comin' for you!"

"I'm so scared."

The taunt was enough to make O'Shea's face go livid. He was back through the door before Yokas could stop him. He was bent on nailing this guy. Halfway up the staircase to the second floor, he heard Yokas scream out his name and he knew in an instant that they were in trouble. Only a handful of seconds later, there was a boom and the whole house shook to its foundation. The stairs beneath him shuddered with the shockwave. He stumbled, bouncing off the wall before tumbling backwards down the stairs. His shoulder hit first and stabs of white heat blossomed from the joint. A cry of pain and surprise ripped from his throat unbidden as he banged his head against the baseboard on the way down. His world was suddenly filled with shock and terror when he realised that something in the house was burning. He could smell the fire and smoke. Then he hit the landing at the bottom of the stairs and everything went black.

**

* * *

**

"Attention Engine Fifty-Five, attention Engine Fifty-Five. Please respond to 214 Lexington Avenue for a report of an explosion and structure fire. Possible civilians trapped inside. Adam and Boy 55-3 en route. Repeating. Attention EngineFifty-Five, attention Engine Fifty-Five. Please respond to 214 Lexington Avenue for a report of an explosion and structure fire. Possible civilians trapped inside. Adam and Boy 55-3 en route. Time out 1932."

The station came alive instantly. Jimmy already had his heavy trousers pulled on by the time the alarm had ceased its clamouring. Other firefighters were scrambling for their gear and running for the truck.

"Come on, come on, let's move it!"

"EngineFifty-Five responding, 214 Lexington."

One by one, the men piled into the cab. DK was already behind the oversize steering wheel. As soon as all the doors had been pulled shut, he set the large truck into motion. There was never any time to waste when there were people in a burning building.

"Hey, isn't 214 Lex one of the places where them drug-heads hang out?" Someone asked.

Jimmy paled. "No way. It couldn't be a lab that went up."

"You willing to bet on that?"

There were no takers. DK's foot got heavier on the gas pedal. It was suddenly more serious than the initial call had indicated. Drug labs were extremely dangerous places to have, and ten times worse to have them on fire.

"Come on, jackass, get outta the way!" DK cried at the Jeep with out-of-state plates. Jimmy reached over his head and pulled down on the cord of the air horn. The Jeep moved and the Engine roared past him. Each man prayed silently that their worst fears wouldn't come true when they arrived on-scene.

**

* * *

**

Fire trucks and ambulances filled the street with flashing red and white lights, nearly overshadowing by the glow of orange. Bosco leapt out of the RMP he had parked with a squeal of tires and bounded through the maze of hoses and people to get to the brightly burning house at the centre of everyone's attention. Someone reached out to grab him as he neared the curb and he resisted, his eyes riveted on the blaze.

"Bosco, no! Stay back!"

"My partner's in there!"

"Stay back!" It was Jimmy Doherty who was yelling, his arms wrapped around the struggling officer. "We'll get her out!"

"Faith!" He couldn't see anything moving inside. The windows were billowing thick smoke at an alarming rate. Bosco pushed against Jimmy with all his strength, frantic and determined. He never should have agreed to separate. O'Shea was too reckless.

"Bosco! Get back!"

"Let me go! Faith's in there!"

Jimmy felt himself losing ground against the officer. "DK! Help over here!"

The other firefighter came over at once and the two of them were able to force Bosco back away from the waves of heat and smoke. Officers appeared to take over for the firefighters, and Bosco was well-restrained. He felt shattered. There was no way anybody could survive long in that inferno, even with the right equipment. It wasn't possible. What was he going to tell Fred? How could he tell Fred? It was his fault that Faith was in there. He hadn't been around to watch her back. O'Shea was supposed to, and clearly he'd failed. Silent tears smeared the grime that had settled onto Bosco's cheeks. That stupid bastard had been bound to get someone hurt and now it had happened. Why hadn't he been taken off the street before now, before another officer suffered because of his relentless hunt for revenge?

The loud crackling and snapping of beams caused the shouted chatter to pause for a moment. It was hopeless now and everyone on the street knew it. Whoever was inside would be long dead by now. Nobody could live through an entire floor collapsing on top of them. The only thing left was to put out the flames and search for bodies.

Bosco threw off the hands that held him back and sank down against the tire of the nearest vehicle. He felt sick to his stomach. What was he supposed to do now, without his partner there to help him through each shift? She was the reason he stayed a cop, and she was gone, lost in that raging fire. Damn that idiot O'Shea! Bosco should have known that the older cop would finally drag someone else down with him.

What was the point of all this? Another two officers killed in the line of duty, and for what? Some Ecstasy dealer who wasn't worth the cost in lives that were being lost? No. It wasn't right. They shouldn't even be bothering anymore. Officers were getting hurt and killed and it had to stop. But why did it have to be Faith?

"Medic!"

A rush of activity erupted nearby. Bosco looked up toward the house, shocked that he recognised that voice. It was O'Shea, that careless ass. The older officer appeared in the front entryway, staggering out of the smoke. What the hell? Was it possible? Bosco shot to his feet. O'Shea was carrying someone in his arms. Who was it? He prayed fervently that it was his partner, that she was still alive. Jimmy Doherty and another firefighter hurried to O'Shea, helping him down the front steps. The officer was covered from head to toe in ash and dirt, and his uniform had clearly been on fire. Patches of the fabric had been burnt away. His face was nearly as black as the rubber jackets the firefighters were wearing.

"Faith!"

Doc rushed to take the unconscious officer from O'Shea, allowing him to collapse against Jimmy.

"What happened?"

O'Shea trembled, his eyes slightly unfocussed. "I don't know. There was a boom, I fell down the stairs and hit me head. She might've been knocked out. I don't know, I don't know."

"Malone, get over here with that bag!"

The paramedic carefully laid Faith down and went to work right away. Bosco knew the situation was dire, the pair were moving with such precise urgency. O'Shea was led over to the closest bus and Carlos slid an oxygen mask over the officer's face. The Irishman was too concerned about what was happening on the ground nearby to bother resisting.

"What should I do?" The fourth paramedic asked. Malone spared half a second to glare up at her young partner.

"Get over to the bus and help out the other officer. There's nothing you can do here right now." She snapped, and the kid obeyed with an embarrassed expression on his face. Bosco registered this only peripherally. He didn't care much at all how O'Shea was doing. The only one he cared about was the one at the centre of the three paramedics' efforts and attention.

"Come on, Faith. Breathe. Come on." Doc urged, carefully sliding the C-collar around her neck.

"No pulse. Where are the paddles?" The paramedic named Malone tore open Faith's shirt, not caring that the buttons ripped free and flew everywhere. "Dammit! I forgot about the vest!"

"Get it off now!"

"Carlos!"

Bosco watched, utterly numb. This wasn't happening. Please, let her be okay. Let her pull through this. Carlos yanked the Velcro straps apart and pulled the chest portion of the vest away. The instant the protective Kevlar was out of the way, Malone cut away the front of the tank top that Faith always wore under her vest. Bosco wanted to protest the disregard for her privacy, but held his silence. They were only doing it to save her. Doc and Malone put the sensor pads in place while Carlos switched on the defibrillator. Everything else going on around them was forgotten. The only thought on the paramedics' minds was the unconscious officer lying between them.

"Stand clear!"

Everyone standing around tensed as the shock was delivered. Malone immediately checked for a pulse.

"Dial it up."

"Stand clear!"

The second, stronger shock made Bosco wince in sympathy. Malone checked again and she grinned for a split second.

"We got a pulse back."

"She's still not breathing."

The barely-controlled panic in Carlos' voice sent shivers through Bosco. She couldn't die on him. She was too strong. He'd known her too long to lose faith in her now. She had to pull through, and she would.

"Get me the tube. We gotta get her intubated." Malone snapped at Carlos, who immediately dug out the desired equipment. Sticking her penlight between her teeth, Malone prepped the tube for insertion. "Tip her head back a little. I need to see where the airway is."

"Carefully, Carlos!"

Malone shined the flashlight beam into the back of Faith's open mouth. "I see it, gimme a sec." She slid the narrow tube into place. "Got it!"

Doc fastened the bag onto the end of the tube. "It's all yours."

"Is she gonna be okay?" The fourth paramedic was looking on from the other bus, doing his best to learn by observing.

"Only if she works with us," Malone replied tersely. Bosco watched with a dark cloud of worry clouding his face.

"Come on, Faith, breathe for me. You can do it." Doc urged, checking for any sign that Faith was breathing on her own, despite the regular squeezes on the bag that Malone was giving. He glanced up at her and the pair shared a moment of silent communication. Doc shook his head. "We gotta take her."

"Get the backboard over here now!" Malone barked.

"Adam 55-3 to Central, 10-82 with one, transporting urgent to Angel of Mercy."

"Ten-four, Adam 55-3. Specify urgent, please."

"Unconscious female, approximately thirty-five years of age, not breathing, severe smoke inhalation, no visible burns or other superficial injuries. Possible back and neck injury. Please notify emergency room to prep for our arrival. Any questions or restrictions?"

A tense silence fell as Carlos returned with the backboard. He helped Malone and Doc roll Faith onto her side so the fourth paramedic – a young man Bosco didn't recognise – could slide the backboard underneath the officer.

"Adam 55-3, Angel of Mercy notified of urgent transport, no questions or restrictions at this time. 1754."

"Ten-four, Central." Doc said. "Come on, let's go!"

"On three. One, two, three!" Malone cried. The four medics lifted the backboard and carried it quickly over to the stretcher that was waiting near Doc and Carlos' bus.

"Get her strapped in and let's roll."

Carlos sprinted around to the driver's side and jumped into the seat. Doc and Malone were already in the back, setting up for an IV drip.

"What do I do?"

"Follow in the other bus." Malone answered without looking up. "Let's go, Carlos!"

"Wait, I'm coming!" O'Shea pulled himself into the back as Sully was slamming the doors shut. The other veteran pounded three times on the now-closed door and Carlos took off at once.

Rooted to the spot with disbelief at the whirlwind of activity that had unfolded before him, Bosco stared after the bus for several long moments before shaking himself into motion. His partner's vest and duty belt were lying, discarded, on the sidewalk and he retrieved them. He had to get to the hospital and make sure that nothing more happened to his partner.

**

* * *

**

"You!"

Andy O'Shea looked over from where he was sitting on the hospital bed, doing his best to tape up a deep cut on his forehead. His burnt uniform was draped over a chair nearby, keeping company with his duty belt and smoke-grimed hat. There were still smears of dirt on his tired face.

"You son-of-a-bitch." Bosco half-walked, half-ran past the officers standing near the door of the room and crossed the floor to the bed in a mere two strides. "This is all your fault!"

The officers in the hallway rushed into the room in the seconds following Bosco's first swing but weren't in time to stop the second. O'Shea took both blows without reaction, his hands planted firmly in his lap. There was no desire to fight back in his eyes, and his expression was distinctly sad. Bosco took in none of this. His face was a shiny shade of red as he fought against the men trying to pull him bodily from the room.

"You had to be the hero! Look what you've done, dammit!"

"Bosco, knock it off! Enough!"

"When's it gonna be enough, O'Shea? Huh? When you get somebody killed? Will you be happy then?"

"Boscorelli, that's enough!"

The wildly fighting officer dragged the pile of bodies forward several steps, seeking to land just one more punch. "You stay away from my partner. Got that? _Stay away from my partner!"_

Lieutenant Swersky grabbed Bosco's shoulders and helped drag him back into the hallway. "I said that's enough, Boscorelli!"

"Gerroffame!" Bosco tore away from the restraining hands. "I'm fine now." He looked in at the unfazed Irishman still sitting on the hospital bed. The bandage he had managed to apply to his forehead had fallen off, leaving a smear of blood down to his eyebrow. O'Shea didn't seem to notice the warm sensation trickling down his face.

"Hey hey hey!" The crowd lunged at once after Bosco as he started to charge back into the room for another shot at O'Shea.

"Get him out of here now!" Swersky ordered and Bosco was hauled away to the waiting room, kicking, fighting, and shouting the whole way. With a great deal of effort, the officers succeeded in forcing their comrade into a chair. Several tense minutes passed before Bosco finally gave up his struggle. He sat in furious silence, slumped forward with his elbows on his knees.

"What did you do this time?"

Bosco got half-way to his feet, in time for Fred to grab him by the shirt collar and drag him fully upright. Right away, the same crowd of officers surged forward to break up the altercation before it escalated. "It wasn't me, Fred, I swear!"

"That'd be a first!"

"Knock it off, I wasn't even there!"

Fred stood back and glared daggers at Bosco. "Then who was?"

"He was." Bosco pointed down the hall. Everyone turned to look at O'Shea, who was just emerging from the room where he'd been treating himself. Fred's face took on a dark shade of red.

"Are you the one responsible for this?"

O'Shea blinked slowly and nodded. "Aye. It's all me fault."

"This is for you, then."

"Fred!" This time was Bosco who leapt forward to intervene. O'Shea wavered on his feet for a moment after the well-aimed blow, then his knees buckled and he went down without a sound. Sully was able to catch the other veteran before he could hit the floor.

"I've had it!" Swersky gave Fred a hearty shove back. "First you go after Boscorelli, then you take a swing at O'Shea. That's two counts of assault on an officer right there, pal. Back off or I arrest you right now." The lieutenant looked over his shoulder at Sully. "Get O'Shea back to wherever he came from and wait for him to come around. We'll need to get a statement from him later."

"Yes sir," Sully said, casting a disgusted glance at Fred as he and Davis hefted the unconscious officer between them and carried him away.

"Not so fast, Boscorelli. You need to hang around until we find out whether O'Shea wants to prefer charges or not."

"For a little bruise on his eye?"

Swersky's glare could have melted steel. "For breaking his nose and worsening his concussion. Congratulations, Boscorelli. You just guaranteed O'Shea a pass from the beat. I bet he'll be real pleased with you when he finds out."

"No more than he deserves," Bosco muttered.

**

* * *

**

The world was a sea of blackness and sound. Voices and some kind of mechanical beeping swam around her senses like a vapour, tickling and teasing her groggy mind with the promise of something hopeful. That she could hear again was a blessing. The explosion had all but deafened her, leaving only the high-pitched ringing of what must have been a dozen bells in her ears that drowned out every other sound. Then the darkness had come, drawing her blissfully away from the scene from hell she had found herself in. She remembered staring up at Morris through the hole in the ceiling, and watching him strike the match. The match that he let fall from his fingers. The match that tumbled lazily down to land in the middle of the room and ignite the hardwood floor instantly. It happened almost too fast for her to even comprehend. She yelled for O'Shea as she dove for the cover of the hallway, just in time.

_Boom._

She twitched involuntarily, remembering the whole house shaking around her as she lay there on the floor, arms over her head. The blast tore apart the wall and showered everything with chunks of plaster and wood. Smoke. There had been so much smoke. It choked her, filling her nose, throat, and lungs and making it nearly impossible to breathe at all. Red-hot embers sprinkled over her as something nearby collapsed, melting small holes in her jacket and singing her exposed skin. She remembered slapping at the burning flakes as they fell, trying to crawl frantically down the hallway. Staying low was the only thing she remembered from the training the fire department had offered. There was so much smoke. She couldn't see more than a handful of inches in front of her. For all she knew, she was going the wrong way, but at least she was going somewhere. Her throat was raw from screaming for help, shouting for Andy O'Shea, and praying that somebody, anybody, could hear her. Nobody came. Then there was a horrid crackling from the ceiling over her and she curled into a tight ball, coughing heavily and fighting for every breath. At last, the blessed curtain of darkness and silence fell around her and she was no longer in the house, but somewhere far more calm and peaceful.

Her next memory… what was it? Something or someone lifting her up, bearing her away from the flames. The heat of the approaching blaze had been nearly overwhelming, but someone had carried her to safety. But who? Shouting voices, sirens, hands pulling apart her shirt and vest. The surreal sense of watching people work to keep her alive from somewhere else, even though she was far from dead. Flashes of faces, snatches of voices, motion, always motion. Starts and stops that had to be an ambulance racing from one red light to another, impatient to reach its destination. A reassuring hand wrapped tightly around hers, squeezing with strength that anchored her drifting mind to the present, where it belonged. Was it Fred? Maybe Bosco. Doc, perhaps. His was one of the many voices echoing above. What was happening, anyway?

O'Shea. Where was he? She couldn't hear him anywhere. Had he made it out of the house alive? He'd been upstairs when the gas can blew up. What were the odds of anyone surviving a fall from the second floor? One hundred to one? One thousand? Too long to measure? It didn't matter. He couldn't have made it out. No one was that lucky. Not even the Irish.

Someone was there beside her now, squeezing her hand. It was Fred. He was talking. About what she had no idea, but the sound of his voice was a tonic. The lingering fear of never breathing freely again dissipated like early morning mist.

"You came." Her voice sounded like a dry croak and her eyes had trouble focussing right away when she forced them to open.

"Of course I did."

"What happened?"

"You were in a fire."

"No. After that. After they got me out."

Fred patted her hand. "They brought you here."

"Okay." It wasn't the answer she'd wanted to hear, but she was too tired to care. "How're the kids?"

"They're all right. Waiting at home."

The room started to spiral and she closed her eyes again. "Good."

"Excuse me, sir, but it's time to let her rest," a nurse said from the doorway.

"I'll be back later, okay?"

Faith smiled a little. "Okay." She heard him rise from the chair and cross the floor to the door. He was there for her, just like always. Her mind began to feel heavy with fatigue. Sleep would be a boon.

"Hey."

"Who's there?"

"It's me."

Bosco. She willed her eyes open. "Didn't think you'd be here."

He looked hurt. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You took off, remember?"

"I take it back."

She'd already forgiven him, but hearing him recant was enough of a rarity that she nodded. "I do too." Her throat felt dry and coarse as she swallowed before asking the question that was weighing heavily on her. "What happened, after the explosion? I don't remember."

"They were able to get you out before the house caved in."

"I know, Fred told me that part. Somebody carried me out. I remember it, vaguely. Somebody came back to get me out but I don't know who it was."

Bosco hesitated a long moment. "It was O'Shea."

Pure relief showered through her like the incoming tide. "So he did make it through the blast."

"Yeah."

There was something flickering across her partner's face that set off an alarm bell in her head. "Wait. I know that look. What happened after?"

"We had some words."

"And?"

"He's in another room down the hall. Sully's in with him, waiting for him to come around."

Faith sat up as far as she could in the bed. "What? Bosco, what'd you do?"

"It wasn't me. I didn't knock him out, anyway. I just got the first two swings in before Fred took his turn."

"_Fred_ knocked him out?"

Bosco nodded. "Yeah."

"I don't believe this. What's the matter with you guys?"

"It's his fault this all happened, Faith. If he'd been more conscious of others, we wouldn't even be here."

"And that's a reason to hit him?"

"Good enough for me."

"Bosco! That's not right."

"What he did wasn't right either." Bosco said stubbornly.

"That still doesn't excuse what you did."

"Look, Yokas. He won't be a problem anymore. I think he's gotten the message this time."

Faith gave up. It wasn't worth the effort, and she doubted she had the energy to make the effort anyway. "How bad was he hurt?"

"Cut on his head, a concussion, a broken nose courtesy of me, and another black eye, courtesy of Fred."

"I'm not hearing this."

"I don't get it. Why are you so determined to take his side? He's the reason you're here with the oxygen tanks goin'. Don't tell me you're gonna stick with this temporary partner thing."

"Why shouldn't I? What happened was an accident, Bosco. It's nobody's fault."

"An _accident?_ Yokas, that house you were in, it _blew up._ The bucketboys are already calling it arson. Where in that do you get that it's an accident?"

"Mistakes were made," Faith said slowly. "Andy made some, I made some. We own up to them and move on. There's more at stake here than who's right about what, Bos. You can accept that, or you can't."

Her partner's face might have been carved from solid rock. "So that's the line in the sand, then?"

"Yeah, it is."

"Fine." Bosco got up from the chair. "I would've been there in an instant, Yokas."

"And what's stopping you now?"

"You."

It was all the answer he seemed willing or able to give. Without another word, he turned away and left the room. Faith closed her eyes again, wishing there was a way to fathom the reasons for her partner's infuriatingly stubborn behaviour. Warm darkness overtook her before long and the soothing curtain of slumber fell, bearing her away to a land of happier thoughts and dreams.

**

* * *

**

"You gonna be all right by yourself?"

Andy O'Shea looked back at Sullivan through his one good eye, an ice pack in his left hand. "Aye. I'll be fine."

"You can crash on the couch over at my place if you want."

"I'm fine." O'Shea repeated.

"Okay. Just offerin'. See you later, then?"

"Aye."

Sullivan watched the other veteran climb carefully up the steps then turned away. The apartment building door eclipsed the view from the outside as O'Shea shut it behind him. He was just fine without everyone worrying. The one thing he never liked from strangers and people he barely knew. They had no idea that he really was fine, that he was just a little sore. That was all. Nothing serious or lasting was wrong with him.

"That you, Jason?"

"No."

Jamie appeared from the kitchen with a jumbo-size soda bottle in his hand. "Oh. It's you."

"Good to see you too." O'Shea said, limping down the hall to his bedroom. "Where're the girls?"

"They went to Nana's for the night. She came by earlier to get 'em."

"Who else is here?"

"Just TJ. Jason's supposed to be coming back with pizza right about now."

Good. They were feeding themselves. O'Shea looked at the ice pack in his hand. It was thawing out fast. He tossed it onto the pile of clothes overflowing from the hamper, then eased off his jacket and draped it over the battered chair in the corner. Lieutenant Swersky had taken care of his gun belt and burnt uniform for him. A replacement uniform would be sent to the apartment for him, even though he wouldn't need one until Malloy's funeral. His blood still burned as Swersky's words echoed in his ears. _"You're off the street until you're medically cleared, O'Shea. Catch up on some rest and play with your kids. You need the time off, anyway. You're a mess."_ The lieutenant was right, but admitting it was like trying to swallow nails. He hadn't been taken off the beat for medical reasons in fifteen years. It rankled to be considered too injured to work.

"Anythin' good on TV?"

"I dunno. We're playing Playstation."

Better than what they could be doing. O'Shea opened the refrigerator, knowing there was nothing in it. Just a half-empty carton of orange juice that was probably spoiled. The last of the milk had been used for the girls' cereal that morning. He sighed. If only Jamie knew enough to go grocery shopping when he was home by himself.

"Hey Mr O'Shea."

"Good to see you, Jason."

The teen pushed the door shut with his foot, deftly balancing two pizza boxes and a bag of chips. "What happened to you?"

O'Shea reached up to gingerly touch his blacked eye. "Rough day."

"They happen. Hope you feel better, sir." Jason ambled to the living with the food, leaving O'Shea alone in the kitchen. His stomach grumbled at the aroma of the fresh pizza, and he remembered that he hadn't eaten since that morning. He went to his room and slipped his jacket back on. There was precious little to eat in the apartment, so he might as well go out somewhere.

"I'm goin' out to Haggerty's."

"See you." Jamie called from the living room.

"Everyone's out by midnight."

"Okay."

"No girls."

"Okay."

O'Shea shook his head as he picked up his keys from the counter. There was hardly any reason to tell the boy. He knew the rules well enough. If he wanted to hang out with girls, he was more than capable of going to a friend's house for that. The Irishman made his way slowly down the stairs, wondering if going out for a drink was really what he should be doing. Maybe he should just grab a sandwich from the nearest deli and go visit Yokas in the hospital. Maybe he should go see how Tara Malloy was holding up. There were a whole lot of maybes but nothing definite.

He started his truck and listened to the old engine hack and cough itself to life. At least it was running again. Maybe he would just go to Haggerty's for a drink. It was the only place he'd go for Guinness, anyway. Or he'd do what he knew he shouldn't do and go see how Yokas was doing. Boscorelli's warning flitted across his memory like an unwanted housefly. _"Stay away from my partner."_ He knew that he shouldn't cross the younger man, but he couldn't summon the strength to turn the truck around. It was too important that he make sure she was all right. It was his fault this had happened, anyway.

Most of the officers that had gathered in the waiting room earlier were now gone. Only a couple standing guard near Yokas' door were left, and O'Shea saw two detectives sitting near the bed inside. Getting her statement. Wonderful.

"Can I help you, sir?" One of the officers asked.

"Andy O'Shea. Detectives done yet?" He held up his shield.

"Not yet. You can't go in until they are."

O'Shea tucked the silver shield into his pocket again. "Sure. Just wanted to see how Yokas was doin'. Just tell her I was here. Thanks for your help, lad."

"Certainly, sir." The young kid said. As O'Shea walked away, the other guard nudged his companion.

"Don't you know who that is?"

"No."

"That's Andrew O'Shea. One of the Five-Five's legends still on the beat. What he asks for, he gets, Walker. Remember that."

Morales, the doctor who'd prescribed the Vicaden for him, saw him walking toward the exit. "Hey, Officer. How're your ribs?"

"Bit better."

"Dear God. What happened to your face?"

"Fell down some stairs during a fire. Got punched a coupla times. Nothin' bad."

She peered closely at his poorly-taped nose. "Not bad? Who taped your nose?"

"I did. It's just broken."

"Come over here for a minute."

O'Shea shook his head. "I'm fine, ma'am. Ain't nothin' this old boy can't get through."

The doctor was already pulling out bandages and tape. "The nose won't heal completely if it's not taped right."

"It's already crooked from bein' broke a few times before." O'Shea protested.

"Shut up and let me tape that nose," Morales ordered, and he relented. With a sharp, swift tug, she removed the tape he'd put on his nose earlier, eliciting a startled curse from the cop. "For such a tough guy, you're awful sensitive to pain."

"You don't gotta be so rough 'bout it!"

"Oh grow up." The doctor muttered. "There, that's a lot better. Probably won't straighten out the cartilage any, but it won't be any more crooked." She noticed the sloppy bandage above his eye as she started to turn away. "What is _that?_"

O'Shea's fingers traced the outline of the gauze pad he'd painstakingly taped to his forehead. "That? A bandage, ma'am."

"Not much of one. If you're going to treat yourself, at least use a mirror."

"I'll remember that," Andy rolled his eyes. "You really ain't gotta do this."

"Somebody's gotta teach you how to properly cover your wounds. This slap-on-a-bandage-and-go stuff doesn't cut it." Morales stepped back. "That's better. I can't do anything for your eye. Just ice it. Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off. And no more fighting. There are enough bruises on your face to last a month."

"Thanks, Doc."

"I'm sure I'll be seeing you in here again sometime soon, so until then, Officer."

O'Shea scratched his ear as he watched her disappear down the hall. What made people care so much about what happened to him? He was just an officer, a beat cop. As far down in the departmental social hierarchy as was possible. Why did people care? He certainly didn't owe society anything. He had handled his most recent debt by carrying Yokas out of that house. They were even now. She'd saved his life, and he'd saved hers. End of story. He raked his fingers through his hair and sighed. Guinness sounded really good. Haggerty's was open until after midnight. More than enough time to put down a round or two.

"Officer O'Shea."

He looked back over his shoulder to see the young cop who'd been standing guard outside Yokas' room. "Whatcha want, lad?"

"Officer Yokas will see you now." The kid blushed at the way his statement sounded. "I mean, she's not with the detectives anymore, and I – "

"I get it. Thanks." O'Shea offered a smile for the kid's sake. "Back to your post, lad. Won't do to be caught slacking off."

"No sir!"

The older man followed the rookie back down the hallway to Yokas' room, where the other guard touched the brim of his hat in a salute at O'Shea's approach. He smiled at the gesture as he stepped through the open door.

"Yokas?"

She rolled her head toward the door and opened her eyes. "You look like hell."

He managed a short chuckle, moving to the chair near the bed. "Been better. How're you?"

"It's getting easier to breathe."

"That's good."

Yokas looked at her hands. "I'm sorry about Bosco and Fred. They lost their tempers. They're blaming you for what happened."

"I don't mind. I understand how they feel. Hell, _I_ blame me for what happened." O'Shea fingered his broken nose. "Bein' on the street too long makes you think you can do anythin' and get away with it. You forget there's consequences for bein' rash."

"It's not your fault, O'Shea."

"I rushed in without waiting for ESU and I went charging after Morris without making sure it was safe. I might as well take the blame for it all."

"Bagging Morris won't bring Malloy back."

"But it'll make me feel a whole helluva lot better." O'Shea said. "And it'll be a real good note to retire on, too."

"You're going to retire?"

He thought about his next words for a long moment. "Aye. I hardly ever see me kids. They're at school when I'm working, and they go wherever their brother goes afterwards. When they get up in the morning, it's lucky if I'm there. When they come home from school, it's lucky if I'm there." He smiled sadly. "Most of the time, I only get to see them when they're in a school play or are just getting ready for bed. I don't usually take days off. Can't afford to. Can't afford a regular babysitter, either. Jamie watches the girls all the time when their nana ain't able to. He don't like it, but he does it."

"And you want to be there for them more?"

"Aye. I ain't got much left and those three mean the world. Wouldn't be so bad if their mother was still alive, but she ain't."

Yokas looked him in the eye. "You've been thinking about this a lot?"

"More than I used to." He admitted. "What's the point in keepin' the shield when I've long outlived me usefulness to the force?"

"Andy, you haven't – "

O'Shea shook his head, interrupting her. "I've got me twenty-five years in. Pension oughta be decent enough to live on until I get another job. Something more flexible."

"You talked to Lieu about this yet?"

"Haven't seen him since this afternoon. I'll get the paperwork from him whenever I go back to work."

Her eyes went wide. "They put you on medical leave?"

"Aye. Bit much, I think. Coupla bruises and scratches never stopped me before."

"But what about your concussion? They said you fell pretty hard down those stairs."

O'Shea shrugged. "Just a bump on the head. It's a mild concussion anyway. I'll live. I just gotta be woken up every fifteen minutes or so."

"I'm surprised that Lieu let you go off by yourself. I'd have thought he would detail a guy to make things are okay."

"It was his call."

Silence fell as the two officers entertained their own thoughts. Yokas broke the quiet first. "Morales says I can go home tomorrow afternoon."

"That's good. Maybe we'll see you on the beat then."

"Not until Monday. I took a sick day."

"Hope it helps."

"Me too."

O'Shea got up. "See you Monday, then."

"You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah."

"Andy."

He forced a half-smile that belied how empty he felt inside. "I'm an old tough Irishman. Ain't nothin' gets me down. I'll be okay." It had been years since he'd talked so openly with anyone. He trusted Yokas enough now to take that risk. It was as far as he trusted anyone these days. "Don't worry about this old lad. You just concentrate on gettin' back on your feet."

The older cop walked out without saying anything more, nodding at the pair flanking the doorway. He really wanted a drink now.


	19. Dealing

I'm glad you liked the last chapter. Like I said, it took a few weeks and a lot of fine-tuning to get it right. Let's hope I can keep meeting your expectations!

* * *

"We really need to nab this guy."

"That's the understatement of the day."

"What? After the neat little trap he set up for Yokas and O'Shea, we'd be fools not to go after him hard." Wickes said.

Asheby shrugged. "O'Shea walked right into it. If he had waited a few minutes for ESU to get there, Yokas wouldn't be up at Mercy right now. He crossed the line when he went into that house, and he knows it."

"You know what? He did what anyone would have done. Morris was leaving the house. The only reasonable thing O'Shea could've done was attempt to detain him. Which, may I remind you, he did attempt to do."

"Yeah, and as a result of that, he got himself and Yokas hurt. That house went _boom,_ and they almost didn't make it out. Which, may I remind you, is so far from reasonable that not even you can make it seem to be."

Wickes scowled. "Okay. So maybe he acted too rash when he went charging in. Don't forget that the only reason Yokas is still alive is because he got her out. Poor guy could hardly walk for his bruised ribs, but he managed to carry her out of the house. If runnin' into that place after Morris wasn't ballsy, that was. Even you gotta admit, O'Shea's got guts."

"Maybe. Doesn't excuse him from being stupid." Asheby shuffled the papers on his desk to one side. "Any word from the fire marshal on the scene?"

"Nothing yet. The bucketboys I talked to said it could only be arson. There's no way that place would have gotten fully involved as fast as it did without somebody liberally dumping gasoline or something everywhere."

"It was a set up. It had to have been. Yokas said that Morris was grinnin' like he'd just won the lottery when he dropped the match. And that gas can she said was against the wall must've been what caused the explosion."

"But what was in it to make such a big boom? Gasoline alone doesn't make that big a mess."

Asheby chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. "That's a good question. We'll have to wait for the Toxicology report to come back on what's left of the can. Another inning in the game of hurry up and wait."

"But the home team has just tied the score." Pete Harris said, waltzing artfully through the cluster of desks. "Adam Seavey was just picked up by a couple uniforms from the Four-One for trying to break into a business."

"The Four-One? That's way the hell over in the Bronx. How'd he get over there?"

"Some buddies smuggled him out, it seems. A couple uniforms are bringin' Seavey to the house here this afternoon. They've taken a pass on charges for the attempted break-in. He's all ours."

Both detectives' faces lit up. "That's gotta be the best news I've heard today. I think I might have a cold one after signing out."

"'Zat so? Drinks are on you tonight, then, Dave."

"I might even front up for a round or two." Wickes added, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. "I'm thinkin' we may have a hope of making this case make sense."

Harris moved aside some papers so he could sit on the edge of the desk. "Hate to deflate your good mood, but what do we do without Yokas and O'Shea? They were the muscle team out on the street."

"That's true. Yokas won't be back until Monday, and who the hell knows when Lieu will let O'Shea come back. I heard he got dumped on medical leave until his concussion goes away."

"Suddenly I don't feel like celebrating so much," Wickes closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Give me a break-down of our remaining street team."

"Sullivan, Davis, and Boscorelli."

"That's it?"

"Yup. And I wouldn't count on Boscorelli all that much, either. He's not too keen about takin' after what he thinks to be O'Shea's path." At the questioning glances from Harris and Wickes, Asheby continued, "I talked with Yokas after you left. Both Boscorelli and her husband took swings at O'Shea. Her husband knocked him out cold in the middle of the hospital hallway. Both of them were very angry with O'Shea for being so reckless. I doubt we can count on Boscorelli for help until we get Yokas back."

"We need them both back. I can understand Yokas wanting to grab some rest after signing outta Mercy, but we need every warm body we can get on the street."

"How'll we get Andy back, then? He's on department medical leave. Only a doctor can clear him for duty."

The sergeant ambled over to the trio, a steaming coffee mug in his hand. "Talk to Morales over at Mercy and pull some strings. Get her to take a peek at O'Shea's head. At least that way we'll get a viable timeframe on his return."

"What about Yokas?"

"We'll leave her be for now. She's off at her own request, and we'll respect that. Got it?" Jones looked each man in the eye. "She wants a little bit of time to herself, that's fine. O'Shea would rather be on the beat than sitting at home with a sore head. I know the man from when he worked a desk. Tougher'n nails and a lifer if I ever saw one. Get him back even if you have to get on your knees and beg."

"Boscorelli won't like the prospect of workin' with the guy who put his partner in the hospital." Asheby said.

"Sucks to be Boscorelli. If he don't like it, that's too damn bad. We need teams out there, and he's the only one open."

"We'll have O'Shea here by the end of the day, Sarge."

Jones nodded. "I'll hold you to that. Just make sure you wipe off the ass before you kiss it."

The three detectives laughed as the sergeant strolled back to his cramped office.

**

* * *

**

There was a strange weight draped across his stomach and chest. Something warm and heavy. Andy O'Shea opened his lead-lined eyelids to peer blearily at what was lying across him. The pain medication he'd taken before collapsing onto his bed was still working, which would explain why his ribs didn't hurt too much. Shafts of golden late-morning sunlight, filtered through the heavy drapes over the windows, brightened the room enough to allow his sleep-deprived, bloodshot eyes to gradually focus on the slumbering body perched precariously across him. His fingers brushed gently across the little girl's round cheek, stirring a few strands of strawberry hair. The girls' grandmother must've brought them home earlier in the morning. O'Shea smiled a little. He was glad for the hundredth time that he hadn't gone to Haggerty's after visiting Yokas. He'd gone instead down to McCray's Market on 110th and 1st and stood on the corner for a long time. Even though the crime scene tape had long since been removed and the blood scoured from the concrete, he could still see the body of his friend lying motionless amidst a pool of dark scarlet. An RMP drove by without stopping. There was nothing too interesting about a middle-aged man in civvies standing in the middle of the sidewalk at midnight. Nothing interesting at all.

Heather's small hands tightened around the NYPD T-shirt he'd worn to bed and she let out a sleepy, self-satisfied sigh. He hoped her dream was a happy one. The only thing on her young mind should be what to take to her friend's birthday party, not the myriad of confused thoughts and emotions that tangled up his own mind. There was too much clouding his judgement to allow him to be the objective cop he had to be on the street. Swersky had made the right call when he removed the Irishman from the beat. He was a danger to others. The condition Yokas was in because of him made that painfully clear. If he had been rational and level-headed, like he usually was, he would never have pursued Morris into the house alone, without the backup that was on the way. Boscorelli was too correct when he'd said O'Shea was going to get someone killed. Maybe it _was_ time to retire, to move on to less emotionally-draining activities that would allow him to spend more time with his kids. Anything that would let him be with them more. They were growing up and he wasn't there to share in that. That had to change. It wasn't right.

"Noo!" Heather's sudden cry startled him from his reverie like a lightning bolt to the heart. He put his arms around the girl and she tucked herself into a ball, fistfuls of his shirt clenched tightly her small hands. She was awake now, burrowing her damp face into his sleeve.

"It's okay, Daddy's here." O'Shea murmured, wondering what had scared her out of her sleep. He tucked a lock of long strawberry hair away from her tearful face and gently skimmed his thumb over her cheeks, smearing away the drops of warm, salty liquid. "It's okay."

"I don't want you to die."

So that was it. A heavy pang of guilt hammered his heart. He'd been so caught up in taking down Morris and his gang that he had forgotten how battered he was getting in the process. Seeing him come home with black eyes and bandages on his face wasn't good for the girls at all. He remembered suddenly the saucer-wide eyes of little Sarah when the girl stood in the doorway of his bedroom, staring at the deep dark purple bruises on his torso, glaringly visible as he changed shirts. He'd immediately pulled a clean shirt on, but the damage was done. She must've told her sister right away. Small girls did that. Now they were probably both afraid, and justifiably so. They had already lost their mother. They were terrified of losing their father too.

"Damn fool, O'Shea," he whispered to himself. "There's nothing to be scared of, little one. I'm not going anywhere."

Heather clung to his T-shirt, wiping her nose on the fabric. "I miss Mommy."

He knew she did. They all did. He wished there was something he could do to help them and himself get used to not having Rebecca around.

"Daddy?"

"Hmm?"

"When is Jamie gonna be like you?"

O'Shea smiled slightly in the semi-darkness as he stroked his daughter's hair. Her question was one that he often asked himself. The way the boy talked and acted, it was a strong possibility he would apply for the NYPD entrance exam after high school. He hoped so, anyway. Somebody had to take on after he retired. The girls were far too young and there was no way he would be able to stay on the street until they were old enough. His hopes were pinned on Jamie making the choice to join the Thin Blue Line. The tradition was an integral part of the O'Shea family.

"I don't know. That's up to him."

The phone in the living room rang. O'Shea rolled his eyes as it was picked up, cutting off the second ring. It was probably for Jamie. He tuned out the barely audible conversation drifting down the hallway. If the boy went to shoot hoops or something with his buddies, that was perfectly okay. Watching the girls would be a welcome alternative to pulling on his uniform and heading for what always could be his last day on the beat. Heather had shifted her position on his chest so that her face rested on his collar bone. Her father ran his fingers through her hair and wished that occurrences such as this happened more often.

"Hold on, I'll see if he's here."

That was the standard line that all three kids gave whenever the phone call was for him. If they 'couldn't find him', they would say so. It was almost always the desk sergeant calling him in to cover a shift.

"Dad, it's for you."

"I'm not here."

"It's some doctor. She wants you down at Mercy in fifteen minutes."

"Did she give a name?"

"Morales."

O'Shea sighed. "Figures. Probably just a check-up. Okay, I'll be up in a minute."

Jamie went back down the hallway to relay this information. His father yawned and stretched as much as he dared with the little girl lying across him.

"Come on, little one. Daddy has to get up."

"Do you have to go to work?"

"No. Just have to go to the hospital for a few minutes. I'll be back soon." He picked the girl up as he rolled off the bed. "Wait here, okay? Warm up the bed for me."

"Okay Daddy."

She was already falling back asleep when he tucked the sheet over her small body. With a smile, he tugged on a pair of jeans and tucked in the T-shirt. His jacket was somewhere in the room, wait, there it was. Thrown over the chair where it had been since last night.

"I'll be back."

"Okay." Jamie was planted firmly in front of the television, a game controller in his hands. "T.J. and Jason are droppin' in this afternoon."

"They're more than welcome. Just make sure that there's something for the girls to eat when they get up. I think there might be some cereal in the cupboard."

"Nah, I ate it earlier."

O'Shea rolled his eyes. "Fine. Here's a twenty, run down to the store around the corner and grab cereal or something. There's no milk left is there?"

"Nope."

What a surprise. "Get a gallon of milk too, and anything else you want. I'm goin' down to Mercy."

"Okay."

The cop tossed down a heavily-creased twenty dollar bill and scooped up his keys from the counter. He had to replace the chipped and stained countertop at some point. Just one of the dozens of projects that needed to be taken care of. It would cost him an arm and a leg to buy one. He'd have to do it himself. One of the day-shifters had a small woodworking shop in his garage. Some weekend he'd head over there with the measurements and help cut the wood. Some weekend in the distant, unseen future.

He paused at the top of the stairs. There was never enough time.

**

* * *

**

Wickes and Asheby looked up almost simultaneously when the dark-haired off-duty cop walked slowly through the visitors' entrance. He did his best to hide the pain that lanced through him with each step, but his efforts were utterly futile. Asheby shook his head as O'Shea limped across the white tile floor.

"He looks like hell."

"I don't think you'd look any better if you were in his place."

Asheby suppressed a shudder. "I'm not too sure this is a good idea after all."

"It was your idea."

"Now I'm not so sure."

"What, because of a couple bruises and a sore head, you think Andy O'Shea will turn down the opportunity to take out Morris?" Wickes shook his head. "You don't know him. He'll go for this."

"Let's hope so, because bein' here gives me the creeps." At his partner's curious glance, Asheby explained, "I hate hospitals. One of my high school friends died in one."

"Sorry." Wickes muttered.

"You. I might've known this'd be about work." O'Shea said, coming to a halt.

The two detectives nodded. "Yeah, unfortunately."

"I ain't interested. Lieu put me out on medical leave, so's that's what I'm doin'. I got kids to get to know again."

Wickes offered an apologetic smile. "I know, but this is important. We need all the manpower we can get. The brass is leaning on Lieutenant Marsh, who's leaning on us. We need you out there, Andy."

O'Shea shook his head and grimaced in pain. "I won't do it. I'm gettin' too old for this crap, lads. Me head's splittin' like you wouldn't believe, and it feels like there's a knife wedged between me ribs. Ain't no way I can walk the beat like this."

"All you gotta do is let Morales check your head. She'll clear you for duty. We've already spoken to her." Asheby said.

"No. For once, me boyos, I'm not gonna put The Job first. I got two wee lasses at home who're so happy that their father's around they don't know what to do. You think I'm gonna squash their joy for a few hours of chasin' down dead-end leads?"

"We wouldn't even ask if it wasn't important, Andy. You know that."

"Aye, maybe I do. But there's things more important than just a few hours on the beat. I'm goin' back home to 'em now, if you don't mind."

Asheby turned toward his partner as O'Shea retraced his steps to the entrance. "That went well."

* * *

There were far too many people crowding the sidewalk. Typical for a Sunday afternoon. Bosco eased the RMP to a stop at a red light and sighed. He missed having Yokas around already. She was like his other half when they were on patrol. The voice of reason, always there to balance out his temper.

Traffic crept along Fifth Avenue. The weather was tolerable, but there were plenty of people carrying umbrellas. Just in case the skies suddenly opened up. Bosco shook his head. As dark as those clouds were, it was a wonder that it wasn't pouring already. He glanced for the thousandth time at the empty passenger seat and stopped himself from asking how things were at home. She wasn't there to answer him.

"Dammit." This separation thing was tough to get used to. He knew full well that she was still in the hospital, but for some reason, he kept thinking she was in the cruiser with him, like she had been for years. But she'd be back on Tuesday. Swersky had said so. Five-Five David would be a team again. He was only half as effective without Yokas.

Bosco turned onto East 116th. For the past couple of days, he'd been on a sharp lookout for his brother. It had been several days since he had dropped out of sight. Mikey would need to resurface to satisfy his addiction real soon, and Bosco wanted to be there to grab him when he did. Bad things would happen if Big T got to Mikey first.

"Central, Five-Five David, patrol check."

"Five-Five David."

"Ten-four." The dispatcher said. "Five-Five Edward, patrol check."

Bosco tuned out the voices chattering over the airwaves and glanced at the green numbers on the cruiser's dashboard clock. Six-thirty, on the nose. The usual time for patrol checks. He pulled the cruiser to the curb. All he was doing was aimlessly driving around. There was nothing to see. His mind was spinning in circles. He needed to walk around and clear his head.

"Five-Five David to Central. 10-88."

"Ten-four, David. Show you 10-88 at 1832."

Bosco grabbed his hat, flashlight, and nightstick as he got out of the cruiser. The evening air felt heavy with moisture. It was probably going to rain. Wonderful.

* * *

"Welcome home, Mommy!" Charlie ran forward to throw his arms around his mother's legs as Fred helped her through the front door.

"Thanks, honey."

"I made you a card!"

Faith smiled as she took the folded piece of construction paper from the boy. He had carefully written 'Welcome home!' in red crayon and drawn a picture of her. "Thank you. It's beautiful."

"Emily says it's ugly."

"Well, she just doesn't know what true art looks like, then." Faith hugged the boy.

"Come on, rug-rat. Time for bed." Fred announced, hanging up his jacket.

"Aww, can't I stay up later?"

"No. You got school in the morning, remember?"

Charlie stuck out his lower lip but went to his room anyway.

"You thirsty?"

"Um, yeah. Some tea would be great."

Fred started pulling out tea bags and the pot to boil water with an eagerness that revealed how happy he was that she was home safely. "How long are you off?"

"Until Tuesday."

"Is that all? You were pretty bad off, they said."

She draped her own jacket over the back of a chair. "Yeah. But Luke Malloy's funeral is Tuesday. The whole precinct will be there."

He looked over at her with a wary expression on his face. "Including that one who got you hurt in the first place? What's his name again?"

"O'Shea."

"Yeah, O'Shea. He's worse than Bosco. I want you to stay away from him."

"Fred, I can't do that. He's – " She stopped in mid-sentence, realising that telling Fred that she and O'Shea were temporary partners probably wasn't a good idea.

"He's what?"

What could she say? "He's just lost his best friend, Fred. And his wife died when the North Tower collapsed. He hasn't got anybody to look out for him."

Fred turned on the stove and faced her. "What are you saying? You're not working with him, are you?"

"I don't have a choice. We're part of a task force trying to track down the drug dealer who's responsible for Malloy's murder. We have to work together."

"That's not what I meant. I talked to Bosco at the hospital. He wasn't with you when that house blew up. That means that this O'Shea guy _was_."

Faith bit her lip. "It wasn't his fault."

"Of course it wasn't! You just happened to end up there because some old lady invited you in for coffee."

"Fred, that's not – "

"I don't want you working with him. Bosco, as bad as he can get, is ten times better than O'Shea."

"I'll have to work with Bosco anyway. Andy's out on department medical leave because of his concussion."

Fred snorted. "Good for the department."

"He's got that concussion because you knocked him out!"

"Hey, that was more than justified."

"I don't need you to take swings at other officers for me, Fred. If there was an issue, I think I'm more than capable of addressing it myself."

Instead of replying, he took the pot of boiling water and poured some into the two ceramic mugs on the counter.

"Why do you keep doing this? Questioning my job and the decisions that I make when I'm working. As long as they don't affect what happens here, at home, what difference does it make?"

"But it _does_ affect what happens here! Every time you come home with bumps or bruises or at an absurd hour, it affects us. How good do you think it is for the kids to see that?"

"It's not that much different than if you come home with the same, Fred." She shot back. "It's an occupational hazard, getting hurt. In any line of work, there's always that chance."

"Yeah, but not every line of work would put you in danger all the time!"

"I can't change the risks of being a cop. It's beyond anyone's control. The best that I can do is accept the danger and do my best to make sure that I don't take too many chances that _will_ get me hurt."

Fred's eyes widened. "Then what happened yesterday, Faith? If you 'do your best to make sure that you don't take too many chances', what in the hell happened yesterday?"

"That was an accident. A mistake in judgement. Neither one of us could have known the house was rigged to burn."

He threw his hands up. "I don't get it. I just don't."

"I don't either, but that doesn't mean I should stop trying."

"Maybe you should."

Faith sighed. The leaden weight of weariness was seeping heavily into her. "I'm going to bed. I don't have the energy for this right now."

"So we can put this off until something more serious happens?"

"So I can get some sleep and get better."

"I'll put the tea away for later," he called after her as she vanished into the bedroom. She flopped onto the bed and closed her eyes.

"Dammit."

* * *

10-88 – Out on portable (Maine State Police) 


	20. Sharing Characters Nonstory Chapter

I just had an idea and thought I should share it with you all. Considering how well-liked O'Shea, Wickes, Asheby, and others are, I decided to "rent" them out to whoever wishes to use them in a story of their own, whether as main characters or otherwise. The only rule is you have to ask me first (obviously) and give a token credit in the first chapter. That's it. From there it's your story, use them as you see fit in the plotline.

Just a quick thought before I rush off to class so I'm not late.

Have a good day!

Lady Patriot


	21. Saying Goodbye

Wickes and Asheby learn something disturbing from Seavey and are forced to go on the defensive. The officers of theFifty-Fifth Precinctattend Malloy's funeral.

**Warning:** Tearjerker. Have your tissue boxes handy.

* * *

Jerome Kimball stared at the two detectives on the other side of the table, his upper lip curled with just the right amount of attitude. The fact that he was facing more than a few years in prison didn't appear to bother him. Time to change that, Wickes thought.

"Do you know why you're here?"

"You think you got somethin' on me."

"No, actually we don't. We _know_ we got somethin' on you. See," Wickes opened the folder in front of him and slid a mugshot across the table. "We got your buddy Adam Seavey. He's in the other room rollin' on you right now."

"Yeah? What's the little punk sayin'?"

"He's sayin' that it was all you."

Kimball's sneer got more pronounced. "Figures. He's a weenie."

"Give us something that sounds better."

"I ain't talkin'."

Wickes and Asheby exchanged glances. "Okay. I guess that's a wrap, then. The A.D.A. will be in shortly to advise you of your options. It's out of our hands now."

"Wait, what is?" Kimball demanded as the detectives started to get up.

"The charges she's filing. Murder One, for starters."

"Probably conspiracy to commit murder, illegal possession of a concealed firearm, illegal possession of narcotics, and assault on an officer with a deadly weapon will show up in the paperwork too." Asheby added. "That's not even taking into account the fact that you violated the conditions of your bail."

"Either way, you're lookin' at fifteen to twenty years at Riker's, at least."

Kimball looked at each detective, his cocky attitude rapidly dissolving. "What happens if I roll?"

"We'll put in a good word for you with the D.A. Co-operation looks _very_ good when it comes time for sentencing."

"Okay. It went down like this…"

* * *

"Hey, Sarge, I think we got something."

Sergeant Jones turned away from the desk officer he had been conversing quietly with. "Better be good."

"It is. Kimball just spilled. He gave us everything." Asheby said, gesturing at his notebook. "He knows where Morris' couriers hang out, when they move to get and deliver messages, how they do it, _everything._ He told us who did Staples, who was in the schoolyard, and who pulled the trigger on Malloy. Hell, he even agreed to let us test his hands for gunpowder residue. The only powder on him is from the one round he fired when he and his buddies were thumping on O'Shea."

"Powder residue can be washed off."

"Yeah, but he's been here since we picked him up."

Jones made a face. "There's still a problem with that. It doesn't really matter how many rounds are fired. Powder residue collects on whatever surface is closest. There's no way to tell if he shot Malloy or not, because he fired his gun again. All we've proved is that he did in fact fire his weapon, which completely supports what we already know."

"Oh."

"Good effort, though."

Wickes appeared from the interrogation room. "We better call the teams back in. There might be a problem."

"How bad?" Jones asked.

"I was just in with Harris and Spindelli. Seavey told them something very interesting."

"And?"

Wickes opened a drawer at his desk and pulled out an extra magazine. "He said that Morris likes to hide out down near Marcus Garvey Park."

"So what?"

"Seavey said that he heard that Morris is planning to knock off the cops who are putting the biggest pinch on his operation. Meaning," the detective dropped the magazine out of his sidearm and racked out the round in the chamber. "That he plans to go after O'Shea, Yokas, and Boscorelli. And us."

Jones' face paled. "When does he plan to go about this?"

"Seavey said he didn't know and he's probably telling the truth. Morris has been playing things real close to the vest."

"What can we do about it?" Asheby asked.

"Alert the teams. They'll need to keep an extra sharp eye out for any trouble." Wickes slid the magazine he had taken from his desk into his gun. The metallic sound of the slide clicking as he pulled it back to rack a new round into the chamber seemed to echo around the station house. "We don't know how much about us that he knows, but it's probably a good idea to post protective details at Yokas' and O'Shea's. I wouldn't be surprised if Morris knows exactly where we all live."

"Dave, what kind of bullets did you just put in your gun?"

The detective dug a box of cartridges from his desk drawer. "9mm hollow points. You might want to load up a mag for yourself."

"What do they do?"

"They hurt."

"Wickes, those rounds aren't department-issue. You can't use them." Jones said.

"Write me up, then, Sarge. I'm not taking any chances." Wickes replied. "Come on, Mark. You've still got your uniform in your locker, right?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Get it out and get changed. We gotta get moving."

* * *

Wickes glanced uneasily up and down the hallway, the unfamiliar weight of his gunbelt digging into his hips. It had been more than a couple of years since he'd worn an actual uniform. His partner, on the other hand, appeared completely at ease. He was standing on the other side of the door, thumbs hooked on the leather belt.

"Officer Yokas, open up."

There was the faint sound of movement from inside the apartment. Wickes took a half-step back and adjust the gunbelt for the fifth time.

"How can you stand all this weight?"

Asheby shrugged. "Just have to bear it."

The apartment door opened. Yokas peered sleepily out at the two uniformed detectives. "Can I help you?"

"Is this a bad time?" Asheby asked.

"We've got some unwelcome news for you. May we come in?"

"Of course." She stepped aside to let them enter. "Is this about the Morris case?"

"Unfortunately."

"Is there anyone else here with you?"

Yokas shook her head. "No, it's just me. Fred's at work and the kids are at school."

"Is it all right if we sit down?" Wickes asked. At her nod, both men took a seat on the couch. "Do you remember Jerome Kimball?"

Yokas thought for a moment. "Yeah, the guy who beat up Andy O'Shea."

"He told us the whole story about the recent murders. His buddy Adam Seavey gave us quite a bit of inside information about the Dolphin ring. One particular piece of information caught our attention, which is why we're here."

"Seavey told us that Morris is planning to go after the cops who are jamming up his operation. That's you, O'Shea, Boscorelli, and us."

"What does that mean for us?"

"Protective details on all of you, Sullivan and Davis included. Until we bag this guy, it's best to assume that nowhere is safe, other than the station house. Lieutenant Marsh is putting together the paperwork that will assign two uniforms here around the clock. There will be similar teams at your partner's apartment, as well as O'Shea's, Sullivan's, and Davis'."

"It's that bad, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Dammit." Yokas rubbed both hands over her face. "I didn't think it could get any worse, after what Andy told me earlier."

Wickes' eyebrows went up. "What did he say?"

"He called not long after Fred left for work, to see how I was doing. He said he had noticed a dark sedan following his truck around. It struck him as odd, so he made a stop at the station house for a moment. The sedan waited down the street for him to come back out."

"That _is_ odd. Did he mention it to the desk officer?"

"Yeah. He got the plate number and had the D.O. run it through the system. I wrote it down when he told me." The officer handed Wickes the piece of paper. "Andy also asked if I had noticed anything strange around the building, like people hanging around who shouldn't be. I told him no."

"This doesn't sound good. Do you keep an off-duty gun in the apartment anywhere?"

"No, not with the kids here. I don't want them stumbling across it."

"Okay. I would strongly suggest keeping this close by, then." Wickes reached inside his jacket and pulled out a holster and gun. "It's got a full magazine in it, and there's a round already racked."

Yokas took the weapon. "This one's yours, I take it?"

"Yes, but I won't need it as much as you might. Keep it handy."

"Got it."

"A couple of day-shifters are on their way over right now. They'll be in uniform. Steve Harrington and Timmy Langley. Good guys. They won't let anybody but your family in or out of the apartment unless you okay it."

"Okay."

The detectives stood up. "We've got to get over to O'Shea's fast. If there are people already watching his place, he could be in some serious trouble."

"Andy's a sharp guy and he's protective of his family. I doubt he'll let anything happen to them."

Wickes shook his head. "This is a rough outfit we're up against. It'll take more than an old beat cop with only one good eye and a gun to protect anyone."

"Who's assigned to Bosco's place?"

"Corey MacGregor and Nathan Kelley. I figured your partner would prefer a couple of cowboys outside his door."

Yokas grinned a little. "Yeah, they'd probably spend more time swapping war stories than they would standing guard."

"Thanks for your time, Officer. I hope these details turn out to be unnecessary."

"Yeah, me too. Thanks."

* * *

"He's not here right now."

Asheby sighed and closed his eyes briefly. "You don't understand. It's important that we speak with your father immediately. Where is he?"

The teen on the other side of the door didn't even blink. "He's not here right now."

"Listen, son, you really don't understand. There are some men watching this building, waiting for your father. They want him dead. That's why we need to talk to him as soon as possible."

"You mean those two blokes sittin' in the nineteen-eighty-seven Lincoln Continental about twelve yards north of the front door?"

The two detectives wheeled around in surprise at O'Shea's unexpected appearance. "Where'd you come from?"

"Roof. You can see quite a bit from up there without bein' seen yourself."

"You've been watching them the whole time?"

"Aye. Watching and recording." O'Shea held up a Nikon camera with a zoom lens. "I signed this outta the house's special tools locker, or whatever it's called. Bloody useful piece of equipment. I got some decent shots of both lads in the vehicle, as well as the vehicle itself. I think I used up a whole roll of film, but I ain't got a clue how to take it out."

Wickes took the camera and rewound the film so it could be safely removed. "You're one step ahead of us, Andy. Great work."

"You lads want a drink or somethin'? I ain't got much, but you're welcome to it."

"Sure," Asheby said at the sharp jab in the ribs from his partner's elbow.

"Put that away now, Jamie."

The two detectives tensed again as they entered and saw the weapon in the teen's hand. Without so much as a glance at the pair, Jamie vanished down a short hallway.

"Make that two steps ahead of us. Good thing we didn't try to force our way in."

"Aye." O'Shea said. "Hope you're okay with soda, it's all I got for now."

"Yeah, that's fine."

The Irishman handed out the plastic bottles before lifting himself onto the counter. "Haven't seen you in a uniform since Donovan retired, Davey."

Wickes' cheeks turned light pink. "Yeah, it's been awhile. The better to stand out, you know. Helps to have Morris' boys think that it's just a couple of other beat cops payin' a visit."

"Aye, makes sense. So what's the purpose of this wee visit? I don't reckon you're here to admire the view."

"No, unfortunately." Wickes pursed his lips and thought for a moment. "We're assigning a protective detail to your apartment, Andy. At least until this mess is all over. There's already a two-man team over at Yokas' place, and we're despatching one to Boscorelli's as well. Adam Seavey told us that Morris is after the cops who are pinching his operations."

O'Shea nodded. "I get it. That's why those blackguards are followin' me around."

"That's it. Too much has happened already. We don't need anyone else to get hurt or killed."

Asheby glanced over his shoulder. "Hey, what's your name?"

The little girl ran back into her room without answering. O'Shea smiled, taking a sip from the dark brown bottle in his hand. "That's Sarah. Heather's somewhere down the hall."

"She looks like her mother," Wickes commented.

"Aye, more than a little."

"How old is she?"

"Five. Heather's six."

"Pretty girl."

"Who's getting assigned here?"

"Hanscom and Puller."

O'Shea chuckled. "Ah, Marty and Chris. They still partners?"

"Yeah. Inseparable as ever."

"Aye, they are that."

A silence fell between the three men. Wickes could think of nothing appropriate to say to O'Shea that expressed his sympathy for the officer's loss. Luke Malloy had been more than a good cop. He'd been a good friend to most who knew him.

"You gonna be all right alone here until Hanscom and Puller show up?"

"Aye. I've got a rifle in me bedroom and Jamie has a Glock nine, which you've already seen."

Asheby was incredulous. "He owns it?"

"That's right. He wanted one, so he got one. As long as he keeps it under lock and key and unloaded, it's fine with me." O'Shea replied. "Whenever I get a day off, I take him out to the ESU sniper training range to blow the hell outta tin cans. Only time we really do somethin' as a family."

"Family bonding at its best," Wickes said. "Still want to stay on medical leave?"

"I dunno, now. With those blokes perched outside, I'd rather not leave the girls alone. Jaime'd not leave, even for a second, but I'd rather be around anyway." O'Shea nibbled on his lower lip. "Then again, the sooner this Morris gets bagged, the sooner we can go back to living normally."

"It's not like there won't be a guard here, Andy." Wickes reminded him.

"Aye, I know that. But two uniforms outside the door would be a sign to the bad guys just to get more firepower."

"Would you feel better if an ESU team was posted here too?"

"Maybe, except for that stuff don't happen for regular lads like me, Davey. You know that."

Wickes grinned. "I know. Just thought I'd ask, I got a couple buddies in the unit who might be willing to freelance if I asked 'em to."

"Nah, don't worry about it."

"Yokas is back on Monday. If you came back too, Lieutenant Swersky might pair you two up again. It all depends on what you both want, and if you even get back on."

The Irishman sighed. "All right. I'll let the doc look at me head and say her piece. Whether or not it gets me back on the beat remains to be seen, but I'll go in to Mercy."

"Good. Thanks, Andy."

* * *

Faith was the first to see Andy O'Shea amble into the locker room Tuesday morning. She was in the middle of fastening on her gun belt when the unexpected opening of the door caught her attention. Bosco hadn't yet arrived, and she assumed that it was him just getting to the house. It wasn't until she looked over to be sure that she realised that the Irishman was back.

"Andy! What are you doing back?"

O'Shea was already at his locker and was pulling off the grey NYPD T-shirt he was wearing. "Doc cleared me for duty. I'm back until somebody knocks me round the head again."

"That's good. I'm glad," she said, and was surprised to discover that she really was. "You gonna to work alone today?"

"I dunno. Depends on what Lieu has to say. Wouldn't mind pairin' up with somebody, though. Makes the shift go by a little quicker."

She couldn't miss the hint in his statement. "I wouldn't mind that, either."

The older cop blew off the thin layer of dust that had collected on his duty gun and worked the slide to make sure it wasn't sticking. "Good thing I cleaned this 'fore goin' on leave. So where's Boscorelli?"

"Late, as usual. I don't think he's ever been on time for work."

"Ah."

"So you want to beFive-Five Edward Foot tonight?"

He looked over with a grin. "Aye, sounds good."

Faith returned the grin as she shut her locker. "Okay. I'll go tell Lieu."

"Yeah. See you in roll." O'Shea turned his attention back to his locker. As Lieutenant Swersky had promised, there was a new uniform waiting for him at the apartment, complete with his badge and the plastic backing that held all his medals. Even the hash marks on the left sleeve had been sewn on for him. He pinned the badge and its plastic backing onto his jacket, then laid the jacket aside. It felt good to strap on the Kevlar vest again, like he was putting a shield over his body. His upper body, anyway. He pulled the long-sleeved shirt over the vest and swiftly buttoned it. The whole process was completely second-nature to him. He could do it in his sleep. He'd miss it when it was gone.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

O'Shea rolled his eyes. "I'm clear for duty, so here I am."

"Great. Now you have another shot at getting someone hurt." Boscorelli said.

"Ain't no chance of that, me boyo. All I'm out for is a quiet shift."

"Turnin' soft, O'Shea?"

"Nope. Just got two wee girls at home who need their father back home. Those two blokes standin' outside me door ain't good enough."

Boscorelli almost dropped his flashlight. "You've got a detail on your place too?"

"Aye. Yokas has one too."

"Damn."

"Guess so." O'Shea grabbed his hat and nightstick and shut his locker. "Time for the hunt, I reckon. Hope it's a futile one."

* * *

"We're actually going be in an RMP tonight, okay?"

O'Shea shrugged. "Okay."

Faith only shook her head and picked up her hat. The pre-shift briefing hadn't told them much more than they already knew. Anthony Morris was still on the loose. With any luck, the detectives would make more progress in their effort to track him down. Andy was beginning to get fidgety with the ongoing lack of headway in the case and she understood his agitation. She yawned suddenly, and remembered that it was only eight-thirty in the morning. It felt strange to work the day shift, but Malloy's funeral was scheduled for four that afternoon. The whole precinct would leave their posts to attend.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." She mentally shook herself and followed O'Shea through the door leading to the crowded cruiser parking lot. "Just a little tired."

"Me too."

"Drive?"

O'Shea flipped the keys to her. "It's all yours."

The pair carried out a quick inspection of the cruiser's interior and exterior lights and took care to make sure there were no hidden weapons or drugs in the backseat behind the cage. While Faith checked the gear in the trunk, O'Shea tested each switch on the siren box.

"Everythin' looks good," he reported from the passenger's seat as he stuffed his flashlight and notebook between the seat and the centre console.

"Good."

Bosco emerged from the station house with a nervous-looking kid in tow. The expression on his face showed his irritation. O'Shea chuckled as Faith started the engine.

"Looks like Boscorelli got stuck with the new kid."

"Which one?"

"Ingles, I think. Fresh outta the Academy."

"Poor Bosco. He hates training rookies."

"I feel bad for him," O'Shea said, waving cheerfully at the sour-faced Bosco. The other officer only scowled at the passing RMP.

"What's our first stop?"

"Coffee. It's too early in the morning not to have some."

Faith smiled. "Definitely. So how's it feel to be on the beat again?"

"Like I've just woken up from a long dream," he replied. He glanced over at her, and she couldn't help but notice the wistfulness in his face. "It's nice to be workin' with somebody again, too."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Nothing really takes the place of a good partner."

"Aye, that's true."

And so the conversation went, back and forth, from topic to topic. Faith learnt more about her new partner by talking to him in the space of an hour and a half than she had learnt about Bosco when they had first started working together. O'Shea was far more open than Bosco was, and she was grateful for the change. Having someone riding with her who didn't mind talking was a welcome relief after the long silences that often stretched between her and Bosco. And the stories that O'Shea told revealed the wild nature of the city when he had been a rookie. Faith learnt a lot about the way beat cops used to act and realised how much had changed over the years. It was like reading a history book on the subject, except that an actual book wouldn't have brought the events to life quite as well or as vividly as O'Shea did.

"Do you usually talk this much when you're on duty?"

"Aye, it helps pass the time. Good for that whole trust thing, too." The Irishman replied. "Me and Malloy used to go back and forth like this for hours on the beat. There wasn't much, if anything, that we didn't tell each other."

"Wish I could say the same, sometimes."

He sipped his coffee. "What, you and Boscorelli don't talk?"

"Not really. Most of the time, we only discuss work."

"Don't that sound like fun, then. It's a wonder you ain't gone crazy that way."

"We get along all right. There's not much need for conversation, really. He watches my back and I watch his. That's all that counts."

"To a degree, I reckon it does. But how well do you know him? What's he do when shift's over? Where's he go? Who's he go to see?"

"I don't really know," Faith admitted. "I've always figured that he goes home, or goes to visit his mother. That's what he always says he does, anyway."

Andy nodded. "Aye, he strikes me to be that kinda lad. I usually knew where Malloy went after shift, 'cause it was the same place I went. Straight home to be with the kids. Once a week we'd have a night where he'd bring Tara and the boys over for Irish stew and soda bread, or we'd head over to Brooklyn for fried chicken and potatoes. Every Friday night, the day shift lads would gather at Haggerty's for a couple rounds of pool and a drink or two." He shrugged. "Guess things ain't the same no more. I haven't been to Haggerty's in a coupla years, and I don't reckon any of the old guard has, either."

"No, I don't think so. It's usually a spur-of-the-moment thing to go there now, I think. A lot of cops don't want to be bothered with it."

"Bloody shame, that. There was a time when there wasn't a cop who _didn't_ go to Haggerty's on Friday nights."

Faith shrugged. "Times change, traditions are broken."

"Aye." O'Shea stared out the window and fell silent. Faith studied his profile for a moment, then swung the cruiser to the curb.

"Come on. We're not too far from your usual beat. Let's go walk it for awhile."

* * *

A heavy silence had taken over the station house when Faith and Andy made their way to the locker room to change quickly. It was two-thirty and officers from neighbouring precincts were arriving to take over the posts and patrol circuits. The dozen or so officers who were returning from the street didn't say much to each other as they filed into the locker room. There was nothing to say that hadn't already been said during shift. As Faith thought back, she was somewhat surprised to realise that, despite as much as she and Andy had talked, there were still a myriad of things for them to talk about. It really was good to get a comfortable banter going, instead of the short-lived and often one-sided conversations she and Bosco had.

Most of the officers had left the locker room when Bosco entered, the nervous rookie still following. This was hardly surprising. Bosco was definitely an acquired taste. She hadn't relaxed until long into their partnership. The aggressive manner of his stride all but screamed belligerence. His attitude was almost tangible. It was a bad sign.

"How'd your day with tough guy go?" He asked, pulling the turtleneck shirt over his head and tossing it into his locker.

"Decent. Not a whole lot went on."

"Oh yeah? That's surprising," Bosco said with a pointed glance at O'Shea, who was quietly hanging up his duty jacket.

"Yeah. It was pretty quiet. I liked the change of pace," Faith told him. "How was your day, Ingles?"

The kid looked startled that she addressed him directly. "Uh, uh, it was okay." He stammered, with an almost frightened glance at Bosco.

"Yeah. We chased down a coupla wannabe thieves over on East 123rd."

"Good for you."

Bosco put his duty gun on the top shelf of the locker. "What'd you two do?"

"We talked."

"You talked. That's it?"

"Pretty much."

"What about?"

"The Job, life, our families."

"How come you don't talk about that stuff with me?" Bosco asked, sounding hurt.

Faith shrugged, closing her locker. "Kind of hard to talk about family to somebody who doesn't have one of their own."

The casual remark robbed Bosco of any words. He gaped for a moment before blinking once or twice and focussing on putting his gear away. Andy sat on the bench in front of his locker, quietly observing the interaction as he re-laced his boots.

"Hey, Yokas. You need a ride back to your place?"

"Uh, no, I think I'm all set. Thanks."

Andy only nodded, slipping on the well-worn leather jacket that went everywhere with him. "See you in a coupla hours, then."

Bosco scoffed and made a show of humming to himself, as if he wasn't paying close attention. Faith looked at him for a long moment, then turned toward Andy. He was halfway out the door when she changed her mind.

"Andy, wait."

He looked back over his shoulder. "What?"

"I think I might need a ride after all."

* * *

The buttons on his stiffly starched dress uniform gleamed like tiny round mirrors in the harsh, fluorescent glare of the light bulb over the bathroom sink. His freshly polished silver shield was pinned on the left lapel, the mourning band covering the centre of the badge like a burial shroud. Today, no one would see the numbers 2785. They would just see a badge wrapped in a piece of elastic black cotton. A heart-piercing reminder to the public that the safety that they enjoyed came with a price.

He smoothed non-existent wrinkles out of the wool jacket and tugged firmly at the hem, settling the fabric over his shoulders. The pair of white gloves that he wore to too many funerals rested on the edge of the sink, waiting for him to tug them over his shaking fingers. This had to stop. He couldn't handle many more ceremonies, where high-ranking officials got up in front of flocks of uniformed, sombre-faced cops and grieving civilians and extolled the virtues of the beat cop or the sergeant or the lieutenant who was lying sealed inside a wooden tomb. It was getting to be too much.

His gaze shifted to the silver device pinned to the front of his eight-point hat and he let his fingertips trace the numerals. 2785. His father had worn this shield and he hoped that he could pass it on to his own son. With a heavy sigh, he fitted the hat onto his head and picked up the gloves. As he flicked off the bathroom light, he looked across the hallway toward his bedroom, where his bagpipes lay on the end of his bed.

"No Taps today, mate. But you'll sing out for the lads soon enough. You'll tell 'em all that the watch is over. And they'll all hear the wish of an old mate. Aye, you'll sing out to all the lads and help 'em get safe home."

* * *

"R-i-i-i-i-g-h-t _face!"_

The rows of cops pivoted as one body and stamped their heels in complete unison. Faith stared out from under the brim of her hat at the crowd of civilians lining the other side of the carpet that had been rolled out. Friends, family, and people who knew what it meant to lose a member of the NYPD. People who were there showing their support for the police. The good people of New York. She watched Bosco out of the corner of her eye. He was as expressionless as the next cop, but the myriad of emotions thundering through him were plainly visible to her.

"You okay?" She whispered as Sergeant Christopher marched up the aisle.

"Yeah."

It was the reflex answer they all gave. He wasn't okay, but like everyone else present, he would hold his emotions until the end. The entire Fifty-Fifth Precinct was turned out for Malloy's funeral. Other commands were covering the precinct until the ceremony was over. Faith squared her shoulders. The pallbearers were moving slowly up the slight hill. A bagpiper from the Emerald Society Band played Amazing Grace. Malloy's widow sat next to her mother, bravely keeping her composure whilst her kids stood by and watched the coffin holding their father was borne toward them.

Faith's breath caught in her throat when Andy O'Shea stepped from the ranks and marched stiffly to the front. He faced the six pallbearers and their sad burden, straightening to a position of rigid attention. Lieutenant Swersky nodded almost imperceptibly at him. O'Shea drew in a ragged breath.

_Is é mo chaoi gan mise maidin aerach,  
Amuigh i mBéarra i m' sheasamh ar an dtr�,  
Is guth na n-éan 'o m' tharraing thar na sléibhte cois na farraige,  
Go Céim an Aitinn mar a mbíonn mo ghrá..._

The words he sang were in a language utterly foreign to Bosco's ear, but he felt a sense of deep understanding of their meaning. O'Shea's voice rang out, clear as a bell, over the hushed mass of people. There was a level of pain and guilt in the lyrics that he was sure was only there because of who was singing them in that hauntingly beautiful language. As much as he was disgusted with the older man's methods and actions, seeing how hard it was for him to remain composed softened the resentment and turned it to sympathy. The poor guy was suffering far more than he would ever admit, but it was painfully clear now.

_...Is obann aoibhinn aiteasach do léimfinn,  
Do rífinn saor ó ana-bhroid an tláis,  
Do thabharfainn droim le scamallaibh an tsaoil seo,  
Dá bhfaighinn mo léirdhóthain d'amharc ar mo chaoimhshearc bán ..._

Malloy's widow wiped furiously at her eyes with a tear-stained tissue. Davis had a feeling that she knew the song O'Shea was singing. The widow's children mouthed the words to themselves in a silent tribute to their father. Although he had never really known Malloy, he felt like he too had just lost a good friend. He felt tears welling up in his eyes but did not lift a hand to wipe them away. He was too moved by the words flowing out of Andy O'Shea's mouth.

_...Is é mo dhíth bheith ceangailte go faonlag,  
Is neart mo chléibh dá thachtadh anseo sa tsráid,  
An fhad tá réim na habhann agus gaoth glan na farraige  
Ag glaoch is ar gairm ar an gcroí seo i m' lár..._

Sully watched the grief take over O'Shea's face, washing away the stoic mask he desperately tried to keep in place. Luke Malloy's casket weighed heavily on his shoulder as he stood there with the other pallbearers, waiting with white-gloved hands folded in front of them, but he was more than willing to bear the weight. Andy was saying goodbye to the only true friend he had left. Hell would freeze solid before any cop present even thought about interrupting him. Sully's lower lip began to tremble as he finally recognised the song. He had never heard the melancholy tune sung in Gaelic before. It was breathtakingly beautiful. Andy's rich tenor more than did it justice.

_...Is milis briomhar..._

His voice broke for the barest of seconds. He sucked in a steadying breath and made himself continue. The tears were streaming down his face but he carried on. Faith admired his determination to keep going. He had more strength than she would have had were she in his place. The conversation they'd had in her hospital room replayed in her mind. It was nearly impossible for her to accept that the cop who was standing in front of hundreds of people at the funeral of his best friend with twin rivers of liquid running down his cheeks would think that he had nothing left to offer The Job.

_...Is milis briomhar leathanbhog an t-aer ann,  
Is gile ón ngréin go fairsing ar an mbán,  
Is ochón, a ríbhean bhanúil na gcraobhfholt,  
Gan sinne araon i measc an aitinn mar do bhímis tráth!_

Lieutenant Swersky straightened his back as O'Shea finished. The last echo of his voice faded gradually from the otherwise still cemetery. From his place to the left of the waiting pallbearers, Swersky licked his lips in an effort to regain some moisture. Of all the funerals he had attended, this one was particularly difficult. He was losing two outstanding officers. One was balanced on the shoulders of six solemn-faced men and the other was all but breaking down where he stood.

At his slight nod, the pallbearers moved forward to gently and respectfully lower Malloy's casket from their shoulders and place it on the metal frame over the hole where he would be laid to rest. God, this never got any easier. The men lifted the flag from the burnished oak casket and folded it with slow, precise movements. John Sullivan took the triangle of cloth in his white-gloved hands. It was his task to deliver the flag to the widow. He did not. Instead, he turned toward O'Shea. With a visible swallow, the Irishman stepped out of ranks again. He took the flag from Sullivan gingerly, as though it might suddenly bite him.

"Tara."

Malloy's widow looked at O'Shea through the fine black veil over her face. She reached up for the flag with trembling hands. Swersky marvelled at her composure. The tears flowed freely, but she did not vocalise her pain. He watched as O'Shea slipped one hand into his pocket. Malloy's shield, lovingly polished until it looked brand new, appeared in his palm. The Irishman placed the shield on the flag and stepped back a pace. Swersky felt his throat begin to tighten. Now was not the time to get choked up. If Andy O'Shea could find the strength in him to perform as well as he had, Swersky could do no less. He cleared his throat.

"P-r-e-e-e-s-e-n-t _arms!"_

In almost perfect unison, the assembled members of the Fifty-Fifth Precinct snapped their right arms up, fingers stiff, to their brows. One by one, the pallbearers passed the casket, laying long-stemmed red roses on top. They paused before the widow's seat to offer precise salutes and brief offerings of sympathy and support. Andy O'Shea reverently placed a rose on the casket and laid both hands on the lid for several moments, his head bowed. He pressed the fingers of one hand to his lips and touched the casket. When he straightened up, his red-rimmed eyes locked with Swersky's. The lieutenant only nodded. O'Shea moved away to take up position beside Tara Malloy.

"O-r-d-a-a-a-h _arms!"_

The saluting officers relaxed their right arms and again stood at attention. It was time for the family to pay their last respects. Tara Malloy accepted O'Shea's offered arm and he walked with her to the graveside. A black-gloved hand reached out to touch the rose-covered oak. Together, the pair whispered a prayer that was only barely audible, crossing themselves in unison before and after. She clung to her escort as she stared down at the coffin of her slain husband, finally losing the battle to hold back her grief. O'Shea led her away.

It was all Swersky could do not to cry.

* * *

The bar was buzzing with the low murmur of voices, occasionally punctuated by a burst of laughter. Dark blue dress uniforms filled the bar stools and almost every other open space, keeping the bartender busy with orders for whisky, beer, or whatever happened to be the drink of choice. Andy O'Shea sat at the far end of the bar, hunched over a glass of Guinness. His shirt was unbuttoned around the throat, the tie loosened and hanging low. He had spoken to nobody since arriving and nobody had bothered to approach him. It was an unspoken gesture of respect.

Faith watched the Irishman empty the glass in a single long swallow and promptly order another. It was his third round in almost an hour. Sully and Davis were seated around the table with her, and Bosco was somewhere with a group of cops swapping stories. The overall atmosphere was sombre, with subtle overtones of self-reflection and nostalgia. Most of the officers present had worked with Luke Malloy, or had at least known who he was.

"So there we were, runnin' up the stairs after this guy, when all of a sudden he yells out, 'Help! Help! I'm being attacked!' We get to the street and there he is, on top of a parking meter, trying to fight off the little Chihuahua that was barking its head off at him. Come to find out, the guy had accidentally kicked the dog as he was running and it started barking at him." Sully was saying. "Luke pulled the guy off the parking meter and handcuffed him, after the Chihuahua's owner had called the dog off. He ruffled the poor guy's hair and said, 'Y'know, mate, there are laws against molesting city-owned parking meters.'"

Faith and Davis laughed. Sully tipped up his bottle of Budweiser and shook his head. "Man, Luke was something else. Most people liked him, or at least tolerated him."

"Yeah, it sounds that way."

"I didn't know him all that well, but Andy says he was one of the best guys on the beat." Faith said.

"And that's high praise coming from him. He doesn't hand out good favour all that often. When he says that somebody's good, it's probably true."

Faith looked across the bar-room again. Andy was still perched on his stool, nursing another pint of Guinness. She stood up, taking her beer with her. Sully had launched into another story so she left the table and crossed the crowded floor.

"Hey Andy."

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. His only response was a grunt as he drained the glass, thumped it onto the bar, and tapped the rim with his finger. The bartender came over at once with a fresh glass.

"Are you okay?"

"Aye."

"Anything you need to talk about?"

The Irishman shook his head, taking another long drink of the dark liquid. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Aye. Ain't nothin' wrong with me that a coupla drinks can't fix," he said and emptied the glass. Faith caught the bartender's eye and shook her head. The man nodded, clearly relieved, and moved to pour a shot of whisky for another officer.

"How many have you had tonight?"

"Dunno. I can handle 'em."

Another glance over at the bartender. He held up five fingers and shook his head, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Faith got the message. She dug out her wallet.

"Come on, Andy. It's time to go home."

"Not until I get another pint."

"You've had enough."

Andy shook his head. "Ain't a good idea to keep an Irishman from his drinkin'. Another pint, Frankie!"

"Not tonight, Andrew. You'll just fall off the wagon again." The bartender answered. "You're already well on your way as it is."

"Aw, to hell with that. I need a drink."

"Soda or water is all you'll get now."

Faith counted out some bills. "This should cover his drinks and mine."

"Thanks."

Andy tried to stand up but stumbled and knocked over the bar stool. "I can make it home by myself."

"Not like that, you can't."

"Hey, Frankie. You got a bottle of DeWar's back there?"

"Been saving one for you, Andrew." The bartender replied. "I was wondering when you would come by to pick it up." He produced a bottle of whisky, but handed it to Faith.

"Hey, that's for me."

"You'll get it later. Come on."

"I don't need nobody's help," Andy said, leaning on the bar for support. He took a step away and promptly fell over. Frankie the bartender pulled the dirty glass from the bar-top and shook his head.

"That Guinness is powerful stuff. I'm surprised he can even stand up, he's had five pints of it."

Faith pulled O'Shea to his feet with the help of another officer and the pair dragged the groggy Irishman outside. "I got him now, thanks."

"No problem."

"What's your name, anyway?"

The other officer grinned. "Mike Turner. I've been Malloy's partner for a couple of years."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Yeah. He was a good guy. And he was right, too, when he said that O'Shea here could put 'em away."

"I guess so. Thanks."

"Sure." Turner went back into the bar. Faith pulled O'Shea's right arm over her shoulders and helped him across the street to where his truck was parked. He stared up at the sky, seemingly fascinated with the sprinkling of stars, while she searched his pockets for the truck keys.

"Is anybody home at your place?"

"Nope. Just the two blokes outside the door."

"Okay." She helped him into the passenger's seat. He was coherent, but his co-ordination and balance was non-existent, a fact made evident when he stumbled getting into the truck.

"Don't you puke on me," she warned him.

"Course not."

"Where do you live?"

"Four-Oh-Seven, East One-Oh-Six."

"All right." Faith started the truck. Andy rested his head against the window and stared out at the streetlights, occasionally bursting into song only to fall silent moments later. She shook her head, a slight grin lifting her mouth. At least he was cheerful.

"I said don't puke!" She exclaimed as she helped him out of the truck in front of his building. It was too late; he was doubled over, emptying his stomach onto the sidewalk. "Dammit, Andy, you got that mess all over my shoes!"

His only response was a weak chuckle, closely followed by a fit of coughing. A thin ribbon of saliva dribbled over his chin as he struggled to keep from vomiting again.

"Are you okay now?"

"Aye," he gasped, swiping at his chin. Faith tugged the Irishman upright and slung his left arm across her shoulders.

"Don't do that again."

"No."

With her free hand, Faith fumbled for the key that would open the front door. "Which key is it?"

"Round one."

The lock clicked and she elbowed the door open. "Hey! Help down here!" She called up the stairs, hoping that one of the officers guarding O'Shea's apartment would hear her. "Officer needs assistance!"

At once, there was movement from two floors up. Two officers pounded down the stairs toward her, weapons drawn.

"What's the problem here?"

"Is he shot?"

"No, just drunk."

The two uniformed cops holstered their sidearms and Faith let them take O'Shea. "Drownin' your sorrows in Guinness again without our company, Andy?"

"'S a personal thing," the Irishman mumbled.

"We got him from here."

"Here's the keys." She handed them over. The taller cop took them, then helped his partner carry the half-conscious O'Shea up the stairs. She watched for a moment before going back outside. As soon as the door clicked shut and locked behind her, she remembered that she had no way to get home.

"Dammit!"


	22. Big Fish

The detectives get a lead on Morris from an unexpected source and follow it up, only to find themselves in a situation far more dangerous than they could have ever thought.

The song in the last chapter was the Gaelic version of "Oh Danny Boy".

I feel an ending coming up. Do you?

* * *

"Morning."

Asheby only grunted, clinging to his oversize coffee mug. His partner poured a cup for himself before sitting down at his desk.

"Long night, huh?"

"You could say that."

"Anything new happen?"

The taller detective shook his head. "Not a damn thing. Nobody went into or came out of that house for almost eight hours. It's another setup, Dave, it's gotta be. There's no way that this place would suddenly stop doing business and dry up."

"Gotta give Morris credit, then. He's shut us down every time we start to get a line on him."

"I'll give him credit when I see him behind bars," Asheby grumbled. "He's dropped back out of sight and nobody's talking. We might as well be chasing our tails."

Wickes leafed through his notebook. "There's always a string to grab onto, a thread that gets left behind. What have we missed? Where haven't we looked?"

"We checked the DMV. The only address he gave was the place that he torched. Dead end there. Seavey told us about Marcus Garvey Park, and the place over there, but it's deader than a dry bar."

"Any word from the fire marshal yet?"

"Yeah, his preliminary report is right here."

"Give me a quick summary of it."

"There were definite traces of accelerant on the walls, ceiling, and floor of the room with the gas can in it, and more of the same in the hallway outside. Something in the gas can made the big boom, but whatever substance was responsible for it he can't say. That's for Toxicology to tell us. And that's it, really."

"That's it? There were no other items found in the house that would indicate somebody else was there when Morris dropped the match?"

"He didn't report anything, but that doesn't mean a whole lot. The place was still smouldering when he went through it. Maybe he missed something."

"Let's hope so, because that building is our best chance right now. Has anybody been posted to the scene to keep it secure?"

"I doubt it. What's to protect, other than a pile of burnt and charred wood?"

Wickes cradled his head in his hands. "Get on the line with the A.D.A. Tell her we need a warrant to search the premises for anything suspicious, then dig out your work gloves. We're goin' digging."

"Why can't Harris and Spindelli do some of the work for once?"

"They didn't land this case. We did." Wickes threw a heavy pair of gloves at his partner. "Call the A.D.A."

* * *

Andy O'Shea was already in the locker room, strapping on his Kevlar vest, when Faith arrived. He looked over at her as she entered, then went back to getting dressed.

"Hello to you too," she muttered, tucking her handbag into her locker. Andy didn't appear to hear her. She chose not to pursue conversation for the moment and concentrated on changing into her uniform.

"Good afternoon!" Bosco announced, breezing into the room. "How is everyone today?"

Everyone stopped what they were doing to stare at him in utter shock. No one had ever seen Bosco come to work in that good a mood. He stopped in front of his locker and looked around at the gaping officers, spreading his arms out like he did when he felt offended.

"What, nobody's feelin' happy today? It's a beautiful afternoon."

Faith clicked her jaw shut and swallowed to clear her throat. "Um, yeah, it is. Thanks for pointing that out for us."

Bosco grinned as he stripped out of his civilian attire. "Gonna be a good shift today, I can feel it."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Me and Ingles, we really hit it off. I'm gonna ask Lieu if we can pull another shift together. The kid's got potential."

She glanced over at Andy and saw the incredulous expression on his face was a mirror of how she felt. Bosco never acted like that. "So you're okay with me and O'Shea riding together?"

"Oh sure. No problem. Right Ingles?"

The kid smiled nervously when Bosco slapped him on the shoulder. "Uh, yeah."

"Good. See? You and O'Shea go do your thing. It's cool."

"Okay then. Um, yeah, okay." Faith blew out a breath and shook her head. He must have a new girl. That was usually the reason he came to work happy. "Come on, Andy. I want to talk to Lieu about something before roll."

"I ain't ready yet."

She shot him a look and he got it. "Oh, aye, right. I'm comin'." He slung his duty belt over his shoulder and hustled to the door.

"Did you smell anything on him when he came in?"

"Like booze? No."

Faith shook her head. "Must be a new girl. But even then, he's not usually this upbeat about it. He's _too_ cheerful. It's an act."

"What's it matter? At least it's a good mood," Andy said, fastening his duty belt around his waist.

"Yokas, O'Shea. C'mere." Swersky called from the desk. "I got a job for you."

The partners exchanged glances. "Maybe the detectives caught a break in the Morris case," Andy said as they trotted across the tile floor.

"Let's hope so."

"What's up, Lieu?"

"Wickes and Asheby just called. They're over at the fire scene on Lexington Avenue, searching through what's left of the house. They want you two to meet them there right away."

"They find something?"

Swersky shrugged. "They didn't say."

"All right. I guess we oughta get out there. Come on, we better get the good cruiser before Bosco does."

* * *

She stared out the windshield at the remains of the house, at the jagged, charred sections of walls jutting from the ruins. She had almost died in there. They were going to nail the son-of-a-bitch responsible for starting that fire. Faith shared a measure of the desire for vengeance that was driving Andy, because it was personal now.

She could smell the burnt wood and insulation even before getting out of the RMP. Snatches of the fire flashed across her memory. For an instant, she was back in the hallway, fighting for air and screaming for help. Smoke was choking her and she gasped. Why didn't somebody come? Was anybody around to hear her desperate calls? Invisible, burning flakes of paint and plaster singed her skin, showering around her like a deadly blizzard. She couldn't see, hear, or breathe. Every time she tried to draw in a breath, all she inhaled was smoke and fumes. Her lungs were slowly filling up with lethal gas, gradually denying her the ability to function. _Somebody help! Andy!_

"Yokas?" O'Shea's query pierced through the flashback and jerked her back to reality. His brown eyes reflected the concern in his voice. Faith licked her strangely dry lips and met his gaze.

"I'm okay."

His worried expression showed that he didn't believe her, but he said nothing of his doubts and looked away. She followed him as he unfolded himself from the cruiser. The two detectives came over to talk and she looked past them to the remains of the house. O'Shea was absorbed by whatever the detectives were saying, but Faith tuned them out. There was something buried in the charred and broken timber that would point them to Morris. She picked her way to what had been the front door. The door frame was still standing, a lone rectangle jutting up from the mounds of soggy, blackened wood. Her boots sank into the mess with sickening ease. The smell was almost overpowering as she stepped through the empty door frame.

A memory tore across her mind, taking her back into the inferno instantly. It was the same scene again. Breathing suddenly became a challenge. The roar of the flames was all around, surrounding her and cutting off any avenue of escape. Faith closed her eyes and tried to draw a deep breath and get air into her lungs. There was too much smoke. A voice inside her head began to scream, much the same as it had back in the cruiser. There had to be a way out of this inferno she found herself in, if only someone, anyone, would answer her frantic screams for help.

"Yokas!"

O'Shea bounded over the rubble, just in time to catch her. The tightness in her lungs abruptly lessened, allowing her to draw in regular breaths. She let him support her as she regained her wind. What was wrong with her? Unadulterated terror washed through her at the thought that this, whatever was happening to her, would grow into a constant living nightmare. Out. She had to get out of what was left of this house.

"I'm all right."

"No you ain't. You can't breathe."

"It's probably the smell," Asheby said.

Wickes studied her face closely. "Flashbacks?"

She nodded. "Yeah. The same scene over and over."

"Maybe we could do this somewhere else," O'Shea suggested.

"No. There's something here that we're not seeing. Something we missed." Faith looked around. "I remember seeing a briefcase or something like it in the kitchen, on the floor, just before diving for cover. There was a tag on the handle, a baggage tag I think. But I can't remember what it said. I looked right at it, too, when I hit the floor." She walked toward the back of the house. "It was right here, in plain view of the hallway. There were numbers on the tag, three-zero-one-four, I think. It was a baggage claim tag, I think, so it must have been a duffel bag."

Wickes and Asheby looked at each other, an excited glance that spurred the taller man to press her for more. "Were there any markings on the tag that stand out, aside from the numbers?"

"I don't remember. There were only a few seconds before everything went to hell." Faith thought back, replaying the whole scene in her mind. This time, she was prepared for the shortness of breath and reached out for her partner when her throat began to close up. It wasn't as bad or as long, thankfully. "There was a blue mark on the tag. A 'G', I remember seeing a 'G'."

"'G'."

"Yeah. Whatever that means."

Asheby pulled off his gloves in frustration. "This is hopeless, Dave. We're not getting anywhere just standing here. Dave?"

His partner was staring down the street, watching a city bus lumber past. "Bus. That's what it was. Vermont Transit. The bastard is gonna run. He's takin' a damn bus."

"Son-of-a-bitch."

"Call Sergeant Jones and have him fax over Morris' mugshot to the Greyhound station. I'll call ahead and have them freeze all outgoing gates. I want every security officer watching out for this guy. When you're done with Jones, call ESU, Lieutenant Frye. Have him assemble his team and be at the station within fifteen minutes. I'll call down to the Two-Zero and notify them of the situation. This is our collar, but I want them standing by as backup."

"What do we do?"

"Get to the bus depot as fast as you can drive safely," Wickes replied. "Get a hold of your buddy Boscorelli and have him meet us there. We'll follow you."

The four cops sprinted for their respective vehicles. O'Shea beat Faith to the driver's seat. She barely had time to get the door closed before he pulled the cruiser into traffic. Other cars yielded to the RMP as it raced past them, lights and siren blazing. The unmarked department car Wickes and Asheby were driving followed them closely, headlights and the dashboard-mounted red light flashing.

"Slow down, Andy!" Faith exclaimed as the cruiser bounced roughly over an uneven strip of pavement.

His only response was to flip one of the switches on the siren control box, blasting the cruiser's air horn at the slow-to-yield Jeep with out-of-state plates. "Masshole." The cruiser barrelled through an intersection without slowing down for the yellow light. Faith was grateful she had thought to buckle herself in. Andy was driving like a lunatic.

The cruiser car phone rang. She reached for it at once. "Five-Five Edward."

"It's Detective Wickes. ESU is four minutes out from the bus depot. Five-Five David is en route too, they'll be on scene in ten minutes."

"Has the station been locked down?"

"Pretty much. Station security has been notified, they're monitoring their camera feeds for anybody who matches Morris' description." Wickes replied. "At the rate we're going, we'll be there in about seven minutes or so."

"Yeah. Thanks." Faith replaced the phone. "ESU is four minutes from the Greyhound station."

"Great, they'll beat us to him." Andy muttered, pressing on the gas pedal even more. "Hit the air horn again."

The driver of the economy car in front of them swung to the right immediately, letting the RMP blast by him. Wickes and Asheby were still behind them, although Faith wasn't sure how much longer that would be the case. They were proceeding more cautiously than the marked cruiser, and more than once other vehicles had slipped in between them.

"Who taught you to drive, Mario Andretti?"

"Close enough," Andy told her. "We'll be there in a coupla minutes. I know a shortcut."

"No! No shortcuts!"

He ignored her protests and made a tire-screeching turn onto a relatively quiet side-street. Wickes and Asheby followed moments later. There was nothing but long-forgotten Dumpsters and metal trashcans littering the narrow street. Andy swerved the cruiser around a trashcan that had fallen over and barely missed scraping the passenger's side against the unyielding brick wall.

"Dammit, O'Shea, slow the hell down!" Faith cried, her face ghost-white.

"Like hell. I want first crack at this son-of-a-bitch. Ain't nobody gonna take him out before I get to him."

"That won't happen if you get us both killed before we get there!"

"We're almost there. Get ready to jump."

The brightly lit Vermont Transit station loomed up ahead. There was already a bus waiting to take on passengers at one of the gates. Andy braked to a hard stop behind the bus, blocking it in. Cruisers from the Two-Zero and an ESU truck were just arriving when Faith exited the RMP, the safety strap of her holster unfastened. Wickes and Asheby were sprinting toward the truck, which was spilling out heavily armed ESU officers. The precinct cops gathered to find out what they needed to do. After a quick meeting with the team sergeant, the group moved to positions around the perimeter of the station. Faith's heart was hammering already, and the entry to the station hadn't even been made yet. _Oh yeah, adrenaline!_

"O'Shea, Yokas, you're on the entry team with Kowalski and Bauer. Go!"

The four officers darted toward the glass doors, weapons drawn. They burst through the entryway at the sergeant's command and fanned out to cover the building's interior. People screamed at the sight of the charging and shouting officers pouring into the bus depot lobby.

"Everyone on the ground! Keep your hands out where I can see 'em!"

"Anthony Morris!" Andy moved carefully around the whimpering, huddled civilians on the white tile floor. "Where are you?" Nobody spoke up. The Irishman scanned the lobby, looking at the staff standing behind the ticket counter. "Where is he?"

A toothpick-thin woman glanced quickly to her left, pointing discreetly. Faith moved toward the spot, only a handful of paces in front of her partner. The two ESU officers were searching the other side of the lobby. If the situation went to hell, they would be too far away to help.

"Anthony Morris!" Andy barked, stepping slowly. "Give it up!"

Outside, another RMP arrived. Bosco and Ingles were there. They hurried to the depot. It was a huge tactical error; Faith looked back to see who was entering the lobby. The instant she turned her attention away, a man on the floor lunged at her.

"Yokas!" Andy shouted, a split second before Morris drove his shoulder into her ribs and knocked her flat onto her back.

"Dammit!"

"Nobody moves!"

The officers froze immediately. Morris dragged Faith upright, a gun in his right hand. He had the muzzle pressed firmly against his prisoner's temple.

"We're gonna do this my way. It's very simple. I'm gonna back toward the door slowly, and you're going to let me. Nobody moves until I get outside. Understood?"

"You bastard. They'll shoot you the second you set foot outside." Faith said.

"Maybe, but I doubt it. I hear a gun go off, you're goin' down with me."

"Son-of-a-bitch."

The glass door was right behind them. Morris bumped it open with his back. "Don't shoot, or she dies!"

Faith could see the officers still inside, watching with a mixture of fear and worry. "Nobody has to die here. Just give up."

"Not a chance, lady. Shut up."

An ESU officer appeared from around the edge of the building, automatic rifle aimed square on the drug dealer. Morris tensed. "I said nobody moves!"

One of the cops from the Two-Zero moved suddenly into view from around the waiting bus and started forward. Morris pulled back the hammer of the weapon in his hand and shifted his aim.

"Dammit! _I told you not to move!_"

The heavy _blam_ of the forty-five shattered the tense silence. The ESU team opened fire. Morris shoved Faith away and turned tail, firing as he went. She hit the pavement out of sheer instinct. Bosco, Ingles, and O'Shea ran out into the parking lot, but Morris was already sprinting away down the street.

"ESU Team Two Sergeant to Central, 10-13, 10-13. We need EMS to this location forthwith! Officer shot!"

Bosco helped Faith to her feet. She looked around. The officer who had come around the bus was sprawled on the pavement, unmoving. ESU cops were at his side, administering what little first aid they could.

"Come on!" Andy grabbed her arm on his way to the RMP. "He ain't that far ahead of us!"

Bosco and Ingles had reached their own cruiser and were already pulling out onto the street. Faith sprinted to the passenger's side.

"Here's your gun, keep it handy next time."

"Thanks."

Andy set the cruiser into motion, following Bosco's direction of travel. Morris had a decent head start, but he was still on the street. The two RMPs were on him within seconds. All four officers bounded out of the vehicles, only to be forced back to cover by the wild shots Morris fired at them.

"He went in there!"

Andy leapt over the hood of the cruiser to pick up the chase. He disappeared into the building, which Faith noted was a hotel. This was going to be fun. Morris shoved aside a bellman and hopped over the railing of a staircase leading down. Startled screams echoed through the lobby as guests dove out of the way.

"Stop, police!"

Morris ducked past a man in a three-piece suit coming through a heavy steel door.

"Hey! You can't go in there!"

"Move!" Andy pushed the man aside and followed the Ecstasy dealer.

"O'Shea!" Faith, Bosco, and Ingles pounded down the stairs. The man who had been pushed out of the way pointed huffily at the steel door.

"They went through there. Rude people in this city."

"Yeah, whatever." Bosco said, heaving open the door. "Ingles, stay here. If Morris comes back this way, shoot him."

Faith went down the first set of stairs she came to, following the shouts from O'Shea. He was somewhere below them, racing after Morris like a madman. The old basement they found themselves in had so many corridors, passageways, and stairs that it was a wonder O'Shea was still on the dealer's tail. Old steam pipes running along the ceiling forced Faith and Bosco to run slightly bent over. Her heart was hammering against her ribs as she ducked around yet another corner and had to make a sudden leap sideways to avoid colliding with a startled maintenance worker carrying a heavy wrench. Bosco followed her without hesitation up a steep ramp.

"Where is he?"

"I don't know! He ran this way, then I caught me foot on something and I lost him," Andy stared around in desperation. "I can't bloody well believe this!"

Bosco threw up his hands. "Great job, O'Shea. You let him get away."

"Shut the hell up! What would you have done?"

"I wouldn't have tripped over my own feet, for starters."

"You think I _meant_ to fall flat on me face?"

"I don't know, you tell me."

"Like you could've done any better! Tell me, Yankee boy, if you're so smart, how would you have avoided catching your foot on somethin' you saw for only half a second?"

"I don't trip or fall in the middle of a foot pursuit with a scumbag like Morris!"

"I want this bastard just as much as you do. I didn't plan on fallin' down!"

"Oh, right, this wasn't just a plot to set this whole thing up so you can come out of it as the big hero again. I'm sure you really did trip, and he really did get away."

O'Shea's face purpled and he closed the distance between himself and Bosco so that their noses almost touched. "Don't you dare start throwin' around accusations like that, me boyo. You don't know who you're dealing with here."

"You just bring it – "

"Shut up, the both of you!" Faith stepped between the two men and shoved them apart. "You're like two little boys fighting over a toy truck. Grow up! Andy, take the point, Bosco, cover the rear. Got it?"

The two men glared each other over the top of her head, then stepped back to take their positions. Faith let out an exasperated breath and moved in between them. Somebody had to keep them apart. They moved along carefully, checking every space large enough to hide a person. The tension in the air was nearly tangible.

"Yokas," Andy hissed over his shoulder. "I hear somethin'. Hang back a minute."

The other two officers stopped immediately as the Irishman moved swiftly and silently forward with the muzzle of his sidearm leading. Even he was taking no chances. Faith looked around as she and Bosco waited. There was no sound, other than the distant steady dripping of water from a steam pipe. This place was really creepy. Bosco's quiet breathing helped to reassure the growing fear inside. He was behind her, watching her back, the same as he always did. That fact went miles further than if it had been O'Shea. He was too volatile after the death of Malloy. Faith still felt a heavy sense of responsibility for that. Andy's recklessness, as uncomfortable as it made her, was part of the reason she had decided to partner up with him. Somebody had to keep an eye on him, and being around to do that was the least that she could do to lessen her guilt.

A heavy _bang_ reverberated through the corridor, followed by a muffled shout. Faith silently swore, angry at herself for losing focus. There was far too much at stake for her to get lost in her thoughts.

_"Yokas!"_

At once, she and Bosco broke into a dead run. They kept their guns pointed at the ground, but every muscle was tensed and ready to swing the weapons back up. Each of them prayed that they wouldn't need to discharge any rounds.

From somewhere up ahead she heard O'Shea cry out. There was the sound of metal ringing against concrete. She powered her legs faster. Morris had gotten the drop on the older man. Bosco drew even with her as they neared a bend in the corridor. Bright light illuminated the otherwise dim passage, allowing them to see O'Shea and Morris hit the ground.

"Andy!"

"Freeze, both of you!"

The two men traded punches as they rolled around on the concrete floor. Neither one noticed nor cared that two semi-automatics were pointed at them. All they were concerned with was beating the other. Faith tried to regulate her breathing as she watched and waited for a clear shot. She knew Bosco was waiting for the same thing. All they needed was a minimum of three seconds when Morris was in clear view. Three seconds and then this would be over.

"Andy lookout!"

O'Shea's eyes darted at once toward her as Morris flattened his already broken nose. The Irishman's hand dropped immediately to his hip, but the dealer had anticipated the action and grabbed the officer's gun first. Faith bent her left elbow, dropping her aim point to follow the dealer as he hit O'Shea again.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" Andy swore, both hands covering his nose. "No-good bastard broke me f – "

"Drop the gun!" Faith yelled, drowning out the rest of her partner's sentence.

Morris sneered. "Like hell. I like takin' cops' guns."

"Up yours, bloody Yankee trash!"

The Ecstasy dealer's expression changed swiftly from smug to surprise when O'Shea drove his boot into the other man's knee. O'Shea's sidearm slipped from Morris' hand as he toppled. There was a brief moment of silence, then an eruption of movement. O'Shea lunged for his weapon as Morris recovered from his fall and reached for his own. Faith barely had time to blink before the two men had their respective weapons in hand.

"No!"

In the instant it took for Bosco to shout, both O'Shea and Morris spun around on their knees, bringing their guns up and around to bear on the other. The larger gun in Morris' hands far outstripped the police-issue weapon O'Shea held. Everyone knew that if shots were fired, Andy would not win. One solid hit from a forty-five would drop a man where he stood and ensure that he stayed down.

"Drop your weapon."

Nobody moved or dared to. The Irishman's arms quivered with a mixture of exhaustion and adrenaline but his aim was steady. It was a standoff that would produce no winners. Bosco could feel the beads of persipiration rolling lazily down his neck and wished he could lift a hand to wipe them away. Any movement from him or Faith would trigger a shootout.

"Nobody needs to get hurt here. Just put the gun down."

"I ain't here to be sweet-talked. This one here, he's all I want. This Mick who thinks he can take apart my organisation by himself."

"Nobody leaves until you drop your weapon."

Morris shook his head. "Then we stand here like this for ever, 'cause I never surrender my gun."

O'Shea sucked away some blood from his upper lip and promptly spat onto the ground. He glanced over at Faith, then at Bosco, and back at Faith. Even though he was the one in danger, he was the senior officer on scene.

"Holster your sidearms."

"Are you crazy?" Bosco demanded. "If we do, he'll put a slug between your eyes and put us down before we could draw again."

"Can't let him be the one with all the cards, Andy."

"He's already got all the bloody cards! Put away your guns!"

Faith and Bosco exchanged a long glance, and reluctantly lowered their weapons. He had a point. Morris grinned like he had just won the lottery.

"Outstanding. Maybe you can see reason, Mick."

"Maybe." O'Shea eased himself to his feet, rested his index finger on the trigger guard, and released the magazine with his thumb. It clattered to the floor at his feet. With slow, careful movements, he holstered the weapon and lifted his empty hands up, palms out. Morris watched with a triumphant smirk smeared on his face.

"Let's go." He spun O'Shea around and pulled him backwards, the muzzle of his forty-five firmly pressed against the back of the officer's head. "No sudden moves or I put a bullet into the back of his head."

Faith was astonished to see a smile coming onto Andy's face. He flashed one finger at her in a quick, almost casual wave as he was pulled backwards. It took her several seconds before she understood. He still had one round in his gun. Morris hadn't noticed that O'Shea never cleared the chamber. She shot Bosco a quick look, hoping he would get it too. As Morris neared the corner, he gave O'Shea a rough shove that brought him around one hundred-eighty degrees. He took his eyes off the other two officers for half a second. Half a second too long.

_"Now!"_

O'Shea let his knees buckle, getting himself out of the line of fire. Morris ignored him. His most pressing concern was the pair of cops still on their feet. He started firing before either Faith's or Bosco's gun cleared its holster. Both dove for cover. The Ecstasy dealer howled as he sought what protection he could behind a wide pipe.

"I got him!" Andy shouted, drawing and firing in one smooth motion.

Morris screamed. He went down with a string of vicious curses. The three officers advanced on him slowly, extremely wary of moving in too fast. O'Shea's shot had caught the dealer in the thigh. When he'd fallen, he had lost his grip on the gun and it lay just outside his reach. Bosco moved in to pick it up.

"I think we'll need backup down here."

* * *

"I feel like dancing." Asheby commented as Yokas, Boscorelli, and a very battered O'Shea escorted their prisoner into the station house. A pair of beefy ESU cops was with them, one in front and one behind. The automatic rifles they carried at port arms indicated how seriously Captain Piikarainen was taking this situation. Security around the station had suddenly become a high priority. An ESU team had been detailed to guard the entrances of the building and were authorised to search everyone entering or exiting. _Morris must love all this attention._

"Now _that_ would be worth seeing," Wickes said. His partner rolled his eyes.

"Just because you have two left feet doesn't mean you can take out your bitterness on those of us who do have a sense of grace."

"Man, you're all leg. And your feet are so big it's a wonder you don't trip over 'em just walkin' into the station house."

Asheby flicked a crumbled paper ball at him. "Those who are vertically challenged should not wear stilts."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I dunno. I just made it up."

"I wonder about you sometimes."

"Wickes, Asheby. Cap wants you both in the interrogation room. We're goin' to hit Morris with everythin' we got." Sergeant Jones said on his way past the cluster of desks. "The doc over at Mercy threw a fit 'cause we pulled him outta there, but Cap wants a good hard crack at this bastard."

The two detectives were on their feet immediately. "Awesome. He ain't slippin' outta this one."

Yokas, Boscorelli, and O'Shea were standing in the hallway outside the small interrogation room, quietly discussing something amongst themselves. At the detectives' approach, they fell silent and watched with a slightly suspicious degree of wariness. Asheby strolled into the room without noticing, but his partner was too experienced to miss the abrupt shift in the officers' behaviour.

"What's up, Officers?"

"Just waitin' for you lads to have your shot at the blackguard in there," O'Shea replied smoothly. Wickes couldn't suppress a grin. The Irishman was an old hand too, and probably very good at deflecting questions he didn't want to answer.

"Anything I should know before going in?"

"He likes to be in control. We've noticed that much already. He's good at it, too, which partly explains why he's moved up the ladder so fast."

"So what do you suggest, then?"

Yokas took the point on that one. "Take out the pedestal he's put himself on. Lay out everything we have on him and his cronies. Let him know how little control he has and how much we have over this situation. Knock him off-stride and then break him down."

"Sounds good. Captain Piikarainen and Sergeant Jones are waiting for me and Mark to soften him up before they move in for the kill. The A.D.A. is here too. No punches get pulled with this guy. It's blood or nothing." Wickes said.

"Hey, Dave, let's go, Cap's gettin' antsy."

"I'm coming. Listen, you guys. Keep your eyes and ears open out there. Even though we've got the head honcho, operations are still gonna run. Grab anybody you can and squeeze 'em for information."

The three officers nodded as Wickes hurried through the door marked 'Authorised Personnel Only'.

"We should go and see how that guy from the Two-Oh is doing."

Faith nodded. "Yeah. Hey, where's Ingles?"

"I don't know. Probably pukin' his guts out in the locker room."

"He sick?"

Bosco shook his head. "Nah, just rookie jitters. This was his first 10-13 call."

"Gotta break 'em in some time." Andy said. "Ready to go, Yokas?"

"Let's go. See you down at the hospital, Bosco."

* * *

"They _what?_" Wickes shot to his feet, knocking his chair over.

"They kicked him loose, not even an hour ago. Jones just told me."

"Of all the – _son-of-a-bitch!_ That was a solid collar! What happened to it?"

Asheby put his hands up. "The defence attorney said that while we had the probable cause to arrest his client, the arrest was made illegal due to the fact that the pursuit was broken because one of the officers stopped chasing him."

"He shot a cop! Doesn't that mean anything!"

"It's basic law concept. Fresh pursuit, or something like that. O'Shea was the officer in pursuit, but he stopped and the pursuit ended right there. Even though they picked up the chase again, it wasn't continuous, which it has to be for the resulting arrest to be legal. O'Shea even admits that he stopped because he tripped and fell down, consequently losing sight of Morris."

"Yeah, that sometimes happens. How does that invalidate the arrest?"

"O'Shea and Boscorelli felt that it would be prudent at that time to get into an argument over the fact that O'Shea had tripped and let Morris get away from him. Morris' lawyer interviewed all three of them. I guess Yokas told him that it was something like three to five minutes or more before they started searching for Morris after losing him. There's not a damn thing we can do about it. Morris is back on the street."

"Son-of-a-bitch," Wickes repeated softly. "After all the crap we've dug up and all the people we've talked to, he still walks. We haven't even made it to trial!"

"Those three dropped the ball big time, Dave. And O'Shea. He's been a problem from day one. Do we really need him involved in this anymore?"

"Absolutely. Are you stupid? Andy O'Shea is one of the best beat cops out there. _We'd_ be dropping the ball if we cut him out of the loop."

Asheby rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. "Dave, they screwed up big time on us. Maybe we should handle this ourselves now."

"Not a chance. Morris is too dangerous for us to go after him alone. Notify the team sitting on the house by the park. He'll probably head straight back there. When he does, we'll grab him."

"What for? The probable cause we had the first time is no good now."

Wickes managed a tired smile. "You forget there are outstanding warrants for him in California. We pick him up for that and charge him with all the bad stuff he's done here in New York."

"Fine. I suppose this means I have to alert O'Shea, Yokas, Boscorelli too?"

"Absolutely."

* * *

Uneasy silence had taken over the RMP designated Five-Five Edward since O'Shea had been released by the IAB detectives reviewing his case. It had been a very good shoot, and everyone agreed on that after only a couple of hours of discussion. Normally, he would have been pleased to be cleared. His mood had been abruptly deflated after hearing the news from the officer manning the lockup desk. Morris been kicked loose because the arrest had been fouled up. The detective called Asheby had been furious and his wrath landed instantly on O'Shea's head. He was perfectly justified in his anger. O'Shea was furious with himself for screwing up the otherwise airtight arrest. Boscorelli had not spoken to him since finding out, and except to say that she had to go back to the house, neither had Yokas. Fine. If they wanted to be that way, he didn't care. Next time around he wouldn't make the same mistake.

"You gonna go back to ridin' with Boscorelli?"

"Should I?"

"Ain't no skin off my back if you do."

Yokas sighed. "Is this how you get rid of everyone who tries to help you out? Pretending that you don't give a damn if you work alone is a really good way to go about it. You only lose sight of the fact that people care about you, care what happens to you, and want to keep you out of trouble."

"What the hell do you know about it, then? You've still got your partner!" O'Shea burst out. "You haven't seen the look the boys at the house give me when I'm around. Things'd be a good sight different if I'd been there like I was supposed to and had taken a bullet too. I wouldn't have failed me partner and there wouldn't be a shred of disgrace to bear. Partners, _good_ partners, don't separate unless ordered to."

"Andy, it wasn't your fault – "

"Save it for somebody who gives a damn, all right? Quit wastin' your time and mine with this fool-assed errand and go back to your partner. He needs you more than I do. I don't care what Lieu or anybody else says."

There was a distinct note of deep hurt in her voice when she replied, "You wish you knew yourself that well, Andy."

He didn't bother responding to that. The lights of the station house glowed in the dark street, guiding the cruiser to the gate of the crowded RMP parking lot. Yokas collected her gear and headed immediately for the house without speaking.

"Son-of-a-bitch, I've done it again," O'Shea whispered, then his expression hardened. "To hell with them anyway."


	23. Conversations

Thanks for the reviews, to those of you who have taken the time to submit them. I really appreciate the feedback!

The detectives learn more about the fire. Faith and O'Shea go home to their separate families.

* * *

Faith studied every detail of the darkened apartment she entered, wondering if she had opened the wrong door. The kitchen and living room were spotless. Fred and the kids had been outstanding during the past week. Taking care of their own meals and cleaning up afterwards took a huge burden off her shoulders. She was immensely grateful for the help. There was far too much on her mind for her to worry about housework.

She set down her keys and duffel bag on the table. What the hell was wrong with Andy O'Shea, anyway? Why was he bent on shoving away everyone who tried to help him? The whole point of their working together was for her to keep him out of trouble. Swersky was all for the idea when she had presented it to him. Andy himself appeared favourable to the pairing, even asking before a shift if she was willing to partner up. What the hell had changed his mind?

"Faith?"

"Yeah, it's me. Ssh, I'm coming."

Fred's outline was visible in the doorway of the bedroom. She moved toward him. "What time is it?"

"Almost midnight."

"You're home early, then."

"Yeah."

"Did something happen at work?"

She shook her head and slid her arms around his waist. "No. It was a quiet shift."

"That's good." Fred said, kissing the top of her head. "You're so tense. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I'm just tired."

"Come to bed, then." Fred murmured. Faith followed him silently. "Still working with that O'Shea guy?"

"Not now, Fred, please. I'm too tired for an argument over that."

"Okay," he answered, rolling over in the bed so that his back was toward her.

"Don't be like that." Faith chided softly, tucking herself close to him. "Please."

Fred said nothing as she ran her fingertips along his shoulder, but he rolled back over. For a moment, they only looked at each other. Then he relented and cupped her chin with one hand. "Okay."

Faith smiled a little, resting her head against his chest. "Okay."

* * *

"You think they'll try anything tonight?"

Andy O'Shea shrugged, using an old toothbrush to scrub out the exposed breech of his old Marlin .22. "I dunno. With Hanscom and Puller outside, it ain't all that likely."

"This'll be something great to tell the guys when it's all over with," Jamie said as he worked the stiff wire brush down the barrel of his disassembled Glock. "I'd like to see Billy Halloran top this."

"Havin' a police guard at your house is hardly something to brag about," his father remarked. "Besides, I know Billy's pa. If he's anythin' like his old man, he'll think of something better within a week."

"Yeah, that's probably true. But this is pretty big. I mean, how many dads can say they took down a regional drug dealer?"

O'Shea chuckled. "Not many, that's true. It's still not something I'm terribly proud of."

"Why not?"

"I'm takin' too many lumps in the process. You've seen it and the girls have seen it, too. Hardly somethin' that they should have to live with."

Jamie paused in his work. "Yeah, Sarah was pretty shaken up that last time. She told Nana about it. That didn't make her too happy."

"No, it probably didn't," His father agreed. "Ain't a whole lot I can do about it now, though. It's just one more thing she can use to make me life hell."

"What, you think she'll try to have us taken away again?"

"She might. But it's still a good thing your grandmother didn't mind takin' the girls for the week. It ain't safe for 'em round here."

"She wasn't too thrilled about it. She still doesn't like you all that much."

"She never did. It must be the mindset of the neighbourhood and all. Your mum's from Midtown, you know, and your grandmother was about as uptight and class-minded as they get. Havin' her oldest daughter marry a cop from Brooklyn wasn't her idea of a suitable match. I guess it didn't matter we were both Irish." O'Shea cracked an amused grin. "It was 'cause I was Catholic and she wasn't."

"Was it really that divided?"

"Aye, and still is. Half the time, your grandmother won't even say hello when I go pick up the girls."

Jamie shook his head, replacing the spring that operated the weapon's slide. "I've noticed that, but I never thought it had anything to do with her being Protestant."

"She's old Irish, like my folks, except her family's from Dublin. You'll find most O'Sheas hailing from Mayo, where Gaelic's still a common language. That's all I heard and spoke growin' up."

"And Nana doesn't like that either?"

"No, she don't. I reckon that she figures everybody should speak English and that's it. Bloody narrow-minded point of view, but that's a Dubliner for you."

His son laughed and reattached the slide. "She's not the only with a bias, then."

"Not by a long shot. Your mum was the only one who could see both sides and be the impartial one."

"Yeah. She always was good at settling stuff."

A silence fell over the two of them as they sat in the living room, reassembling their weapons. O'Shea glanced up at a picture of his dead wife, hanging next to the front door and a heavy wave of sorrow washed through him. Lord, he missed her.

"She's still with us, Dad."

O'Shea brought his attention back to the cramped living room and the scattered gun cleaning kits on the floor, slightly embarrassed to have been caught staring at the picture. "Aye, I know."

"You think about her a lot, don't you?"

"Every spare thought," he admitted. Jamie nodded, a solemn expression lending premature age to his young face.

"Me too."

The Irishman tightened the screws that held the scope to the rifle and held it up to check the sights. "Come on, let's put these away. What do you say to a burger down at Haggerty's?"

Jamie managed a smile to break the sombre and reflective mood. "Sure."

* * *

"Toxicology's back on the gas can."

Wickes picked his head up from his desk, where it had been resting and yawned. "And it was inconclusive, right?"

"Such lack of faith in our lab department. Far from it, actually. The techs say there are trace amounts of black powder all over the pieces of the can. They estimate, based on the quantity of powder residue, that the can had been filled to the top."

"All the more to make a big mess. Wonderful. So it is definitely arson."

Asheby nodded. "There's more. The fire marshal revisited the scene as per Marsh's request and stumbled across a small fire-proof safe buried under a pile of wall beams. He took it straight to the lab and the techs broke it open. You won't believe what they found."

"Enlighten me," Wickes said, getting up from the desk to refill his coffee mug.

"Half a dozen cases of 7.62 calibre bullets and four fully automatic assault rifles, not to mention more than enough full magazines to hold off ESU for days. Morris was prepared for Armageddon, Dave."

"Good. We took away one of his stashes. How many more are there? Who's gonna find themselves on the wrong end of the stick if we storm one of his other strong-houses?"

"We're more than prepared to take him and whoever else he cons into joining him. That's what ESU is for."

Wickes shook his head. "That's not the point. The point is not putting any of our people in that position. If we can take him out quietly, we will."

"He has to go down, Dave, and he's not gonna go quietly. Someone's goin' down with him."

"I'm not about to let anyone else get hurt or killed if I don't have to."

"Then what the hell is the point? Morris knows he's in deep. What's it matter if he takes another cop down? He's already done too much. I say we raid the place on 123rd first thing tomorrow and grab whoever or whatever is there. It's better than nothing."

"No, Mark, you're missing the point. We're at a delicate spot right now. Morris is laying low and that's probably a bad thing. But it beats the hell out of the alternative, which would be him targeting the cops on the beat. I'm not going to gamble with any lives until I know more about what he's up to and where he's at."

"Dave, he killed a cop!" Asheby shouted. "He shot and killed a New York City police officer and you're givin' him a free pass to run!"

"He won't run! We're watching every bus, train, and subway station and both airports. The Port Authority has everyone checking vehicles going out of the City. If he makes a move to run, we'll know about it."

"It's all reactive! We should be out hunting him down, not waiting for him to call the tune for us to dance to."

"He's already called the tune, but we're hardly dancing to it. If anything, we're proving pretty horrible at keeping step."

"I can't, I can't deal with this. We're goin' in circles. I'm going home."

Wickes shook his head as his partner grabbed up his jacket and stormed out of the otherwise quiet squad room. "He'll never learn."


	24. Game Over

The hunt ends.

Thank you all for your feedback on this story. Please bear with me, as there may be a slight lapse between this one and the new one I'm currently working on.

Exits are located to the left and rear of the auditorium. Please proceed to them in a civil manner at the end of this show. Thank you for watching and have a good night.

* * *

It was all she could do not to snap at Andy O'Shea when he entered the locker room fifteen minutes before the start of shift. His attitude and constant stubborn affirmations that he didn't need a partner were really starting to irritate her. She had almost decided to go back to riding with Bosco just so she wouldn't have to put up with any more of O'Shea's crap, but as soon as she got a good look at him as he passed her, she reconsidered. He looked exhausted. The lines on his face had been getting more and more evident over the past week, and they stood out like highway alert lights now. Faith felt her anger at him dissipate as she watched him drop wearily onto the bench in front of his locker. Had he been staying up all night, watching the men who were watching his apartment and waiting in case something happened? Even though he had two uniformed cops standing outside his front door all night? He must really have nothing left, except for his family.

"Five-Five David's missing a passenger," Bosco said.

"I know."

"So you up for a few rounds of shakin' down dealers? We'll nab Morris before long if we rattle the cages enough."

She was sorely tempted by the offer. Truth be told, she missed riding with him. As mad as she had been at Bosco, he was the only one who knew her inside and out, and knew when enough was enough. O'Shea had no idea where the line in the sand was, or – she thought – that such a line even existed. Rejoining Five-Five David would fill the void that had opened up inside her. On a certain level, Bosco was her other half. She would never say it, but she loved him as much as a friend could love another friend.

"Whaddaya say?"

Faith looked over in O'Shea's direction, but he pretended like he didn't notice. She had to choose between the two of them and that irritated her. On the one hand, she should go back to Bosco and leave O'Shea on his own. She was far more comfortable with her usual partner. On the other, however, she knew that O'Shea was vastly unfit for the beat by himself. The incident on 110th and Park came readily to mind. He would easily get himself killed if he was left to work alone. She was sure of it and Swersky probably was as well. "I'll go run it by Lieu and see what he says," she said, and hoped that Bosco didn't see through the flimsy lie.

He broke immediately into a grin. "Great. See you in roll, then?"

"Yeah." Faith shut her locker and tried to act like she didn't see the dark shadow of hurt and perhaps even betrayal roll across O'Shea's face. Maybe he was just as conflicted as she was and dreaded the idea of working alone, even though he balked at showing his gratitude for having a partner. If that was the case, all she felt was sympathy for him.

"Hey, Lieu. Do you have a minute?"

Swersky looked equally as tired as O'Shea. "What's up, Yokas?"

"I've got a problem, sir."

* * *

He was stonily silent as he watched her head out to the parking lot with her partner. It figured that she'd decide to ride with him. After all they had been through together, she was riding with _him_. What the hell was wrong with her, wrong with him, that had made this whole thing come about?

"Hey, are you coming?"

"Yeah. Gimme a minute." He tightened the gunbelt and stood up. Instead of an experienced and capable partner, he was stuck with the rookie. Just what he wanted.

Swersky looked over as the two hastily-paired cops strode past the desk. "Hold up a minute, guys. You all right?"

He nodded. "Never better, Lieu."

"Okay," Swersky said, clearly unconvinced.

"Come on, Ingles. The bad guys won't come to us, so we gotta go to them."

* * *

"We got him, we got him, we _got_ him!"

Wickes stared at his partner. "What the hell are you talking about? We got who?"

"Morris. The team sitting on the place by Marcus Garvey Park just called in. He entered the house not five minutes ago. I've already contacted Lieutenant Frye. A team will be on-scene within ten minutes. All we have to do is contain the area."

"Then what the hell are we wasting time sitting around here for? Get our muscle teams onboard. Have 'em meet up with us two blocks from the house, we'll wait for ESU there. I'll get Harris and Spindelli. Move it!"

The two detectives dashed off to complete their separate errands, their faces reflecting a childlike joy. The hunt was finally over.

* * *

"Five-Five Charlie, David, and Edward, 10-1 your command."

Bosco reached immediately for the phone mounted on the dashboard. "Five-Five David, in regard to the 10-1." He listened for a moment, then broke into a broad grin. "We're right on it."

"Right on what?"

"They got Morris cornered down by Garvey Park. We're gonna meet the detectives two blocks down and wait for ESU." He replied, pushing down on the gas pedal. "Tighten your seatbelt."

* * *

Andy O'Shea whooped like an Indian when he hung up the cruiser phone. "Finally! I get another shot at that blackguard!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Morris. He's holed up down near East 123rd and Madison. ESU is on their way, but they'll be too late again. Ain't no way I'm lettin' 'em get there first."

"Are you crazy!"

"Nope. Just driven." O'Shea said and didn't even blink when he sped right through a red light.

* * *

"You got here fast!"

The surprised statement tumbled from Bosco and O'Shea at nearly the same time when they emerged from their respective cruisers.

"This is my collar!"

"No way, it's mine!"

Faith looked at the two of them in startled amusement. "Have you two suddenly taken classes in synchronised talking?"

The two men spun at the same time to glare at her. She had to laugh. Their expressions were mirrors of each other. Ingles stood off to the side, smiling nervously. He wasn't on the same level as the three other officers and he knew it.

"When do the detectives get here?"

"Whenever they decide to get off their asses and drive down."

"You mean like right now?" Wickes asked casually. "Glad you four could make it. Where's Sullivan and Davis?"

"They caught a hit and run down on 2nd Avenue. They probably won't make it."

"Ah."

"How far out is the ESU team?" Faith asked.

"At last check, they were on their way. Probably about six or seven minutes."

"That's not too long."

Asheby's cell phone chirruped and he answered it. His partner rolled his eyes. "He's a slave to that thing."

"Really? When? Dammit! Okay, thanks." Asheby closed the phone and cursed viciously. "Morris just left the house, heading west on East 123rd."

O'Shea was already moving for his cruiser. "Ain't no use in waitin' for ESU. Come on! We gotta roll."

"O'Shea! Boscorelli! What the hell are you doing?" Asheby demanded. The two officers were in their cruisers and didn't hear him. Frustrated, he looked at his partner for support but Wickes only shrugged.

"It's their game, Mark. We just clean up the mess."

"Are we gonna follow them or not?"

"Of course. Are you gonna stand there or are you gonna drive?"

The two RMPs had disappeared around the corner. "What are we waiting for?"

"There he is!"

"Cut him off before he gets to the corner!"

O'Shea slammed on the brakes and bounded out of the cruiser, his partner right behind. Morris had seen the two RMPs approaching and bolted, giving himself a comfortable lead on the four pursuing officers. He was heading straight for the park.

"Boscorelli, go left!"

For once, Bosco obeyed the older cop without question or argument. They both wanted Morris too badly. O'Shea sprinted right and almost knocked over a kid on a skateboard. His partner followed, bypassing a sign that said, 'Watch out for other pedestrians.'

"He's heading your way, O'Shea!" Bosco called over the radio.

"I see him!"

Morris did too, and did an abrupt change of direction. He was now heading away from both pairs of cops, toward the centre of the park. O'Shea leapt over a park bench and found himself running side by side with Boscorelli.

"Fancy meetin' you here."

"You too."

"First one to sack him gets the collar."

Bosco grinned despite the strain on his face. "You're on." He pushed himself faster, pulling ahead of the Irishman. Faith and Ingles were right on their heels, neither gaining nor losing ground.

"Son-of-a-bitch!"

"Look out!"

The two cops ducked for cover as Morris opened fire on them as he ran. Somebody screamed over the distinctive heavy _blam_ of the forty-five. Faith hit the ground and covered her head until the brief burst of gunfire ended.

"I'm shot! I'm shot! Oh God oh God, I'm hit!"

"Ingles is down!"

"Dammit!"

"10-13, 10-13, Marcus Garvey Park. Officer shot, repeat, we have an officer shot! We need EMS on a rush!"

"We got him! Get Morris!"

"You're gonna be okay, Ingles. Just hang in there."

"Go after him, dammit!"

Faith, Bosco, and O'Shea sprinted off down the path after their quarry, leaving Wickes and Asheby with the wounded Ingles. He didn't have that much of a lead on them, but it might not matter if he had managed to hide.

"Look out!" O'Shea shouted over the echoing bang.

The tree they were passing suddenly splintered, showering them with bark. At least they were close.

"There he is!"

"Give it up, Morris! There's nowhere to run!"

Morris appeared from behind a thick stand of bushes, his gun covering the three cops. "Of course there is. I'm just choosing not to run anymore."

"Forcin' a showdown, then, huh? How brave of you." Bosco sneered.

"Definitely."

"It's over, you bastard. We got you."

"So sure of that."

"Aye. Definitely." O'Shea said.

"You want me? Come and get me, then."

"Put the gun down and nobody needs to get hurt."

Morris sneered at Yokas, keeping his gun levelled at O'Shea. The Irishman stared down the barrel of the powerful handgun without blinking. Fear was clawing for control, but he was too determined to bring this bastard down to show it.

"Just drop the gun. There's no need to take this any further."

"That's what you think." Morris growled. "You cops are all the same. You run for cover every time someone fights back. That's all you are. _Cowards._"

Yokas ignored his attempt to rile her. "Drop the gun. ESU's on their way, and they take no prisoners."

"You think I give a damn? There are no prisoners in this war. Only you cops and us. No quarter will be asked or offered."

"Drop the bloody gun, dammit. I'd like nothin' better than to put a hole 'tween your eyes, but there's a higher judgement waitin' for ya." O'Shea took a quarter-step forward. "Make it easier on yourself and give up."

"Screw you, Mick. I don't give up to anyone. Ever. Let alone some washed-up cop hangin' onto The Job 'cause he's too stupid to let go. Can't even keep his partner alive. Man, you're pathetic, a disgrace to the shield."

O'Shea's face went red where it wasn't discoloured from fading bruises. He tightened his grip on his gun and swallowed hard to keep his temper from taking over. The situation was tense enough without him making it worse. Yokas on his left side and Boscorelli on his right shifted uneasily, sensing his silent fight for self-control. "What the hell do you know about disgracing the shield? You lasted but two weeks on The Job, punk. Sellin' Ecstasy outta your cruiser while on duty is real slick."

"Hey. Do whatcha gotta do."

"Agreed."

"Andy, don't – !"

The blur of motion on his left side was Yokas reaching out to grab his sleeve. He was already half a step beyond her grasp. It was time to settle the score, one way or another.

Time screeched to a near-stop as O'Shea moved forward. Faith's fingers tightened on empty air and she heard the uneven thumps of her boots on the concrete path. She realised, half a second too late, that she'd lowered her gun to grab for O'Shea's jacket. In the heartbeat it took for her acknowledge the error, Morris had noticed and shifted his aim. Her throat felt like someone had shoved burnt cotton down it. She saw Morris' finger curling, tightening on the trigger as he double-checked his aim point. He had her dead to rights, and everyone knew it. Somebody screamed as Bosco sprinted forward in a valiant effort to bring the dealer down in a full-body tackle. O'Shea was already launching himself at Morris, seeking to beat Bosco to the tackle.

"Noo!"

Morris jumped back and fired. Faith knew those bullets were going to slam into her in less than a tenth of a second. She braced herself for the crushing impacts, squeezing her eyes shut as all her muscles tensed. Nothing happened. For a split second, she thought she was already on the ground, and at the actual moment of impact she had blacked out. Then there several shots were fired from somewhere very close by and she realised she was still on her feet. She opened her eyes.

_"Bastard!"_

Bosco had opened fire on Morris. The Ecstasy dealer took the shots in the chest and side. He twitched as he went down, but kept a grip on his weapon. The muzzle of the gun came up and Morris offered the two officers a taunting smile.

"Gotcha."

A final shot rang out and Morris froze in surprise, his eyes fixed on the two officers standing over him. The forty-five slipped out of nerveless fingers to clatter on the path. His body was still at last.

"No, I got you." O'Shea said, rising unsteadily to his knees. "Bastard."

What was he doing on the ground? Hadn't he been leaping at Morris like a madman, casting aside yet again all concerns of his own safety? Faith holstered her sidearm as she stared at the downed officer. The shots, the bullets that never slammed against her and sliced through her like a hot knife through butter. Where had they gone? Surely Morris hadn't missed. Sudden understanding came to her. _You careless, chivalrous son-of-a-bitch. I owe you one. Again._

"You okay?"

"Aye."

Faith and Bosco helped the Irishman to his feet. "Where'd you get hit?"

O'Shea probed the front of his shirt until his fingers found the round holes in the fabric. "Dead centre. Boy's a damn good shot. I'd be down for good without me vest." He winced and leaned on Bosco. "That'll hurt like nothin' else for a few days though."

"Good save, by the way."

"All part of The Job. We're better off with him dead anyway. He'd be back on the street within two years if the courts had their way." O'Shea said. "Man, them forty-fives got real stoppin' power. If I weren't wearin' this damn vest, I'd not be gettin' up too soon."

"I think maybe you shouldn't be standing right now," Bosco observed when O'Shea's knees buckled.

"Aye, maybe." O'Shea winced.

"I thought he had me."

"Aye, he would've, but for a wee surprise I threw at him."

"I owe you another one. Thanks, Andy."

"Weren't nothin'," O'Shea said as Bosco accidentally bumped the other man's ribs. "Hey, easy! I ain't a bloody rag doll."

"Sorry." Bosco told him, as Faith reached for the radio mike clipped to her jacket. "Five-Five Edward to Central. Request EMS to Marcus Garvey Park, we have an officer shot."

"Ten-four, Eddie. Injury critical?"

"Negative. Make it vest-stop injury. Also 10-47. Suspect down."

The dispatcher sounded relieved. "Ten-four. EMS and detectives en route, EMS will be on scene in three minutes."

"Just relax, Andy. There's a bus on the way."

O'Shea grinned. "Tell 'em to take their time, I need a nap anyway."

* * *

The station house was a riot of noise when the three officers entered. Desk officers, detectives, and assorted other personnel burst into cheers at the sight of the trio and people came forward to shake their hands or slap them on the back. Bosco grinned at the sea of faces rolling around him, but inwardly all he wanted was to be left alone. Sure, he had helped take down the leader of an Ecstasy ring and put the precinct at ease again after the rash of violence that had erupted. Normally he would be drinking up the praise and recognition, but all he wanted right then was a cold beer and the okay to go home for the night. Truth be told, he hadn't done much at all the past couple of days. It had been Faith and O'Shea, out there on the street, busting the heads that made all this possible. If it had been the two of them, like it always had been, he'd feel different.

Lieutenant Swersky forced his way through the crush of bodies. "You three, come with me."

The three cops followed him through the crowd to the relative quiet of his office. Swersky shut the door behind them.

"I just wanted to congratulate you three on the outstanding job you've done over the past two weeks. It's been absolute hell with that bastard on the loose. A lot of people higher up are glad he's been dealt with." The lieutenant opened a folder on his desk. "I'm putting all three of you up for the Medal for Valour, and you, O'Shea, for the Purple Shield. What you've done in the past several days is nothing short of remarkable. A lot of folks owe you a debt of gratitude."

"When, when is McKenna's funeral, Lieu?"

"Next week, Monday, I think. The Two-Oh will be more than happy to have you guys there. My only regret is that we couldn't have bagged Morris sooner."

"Us too," Yokas said.

"Great job, all three of you. O'Shea, you know the drill. Three days off for you. Enjoy it, you've certainly earned a break."

"Thank you, sir."

"Go on, beat it. Take the rest of the night off. All of you." Swersky said.

"Yes sir."

The overall mood was considerably lighter when they emerged from the lieutenant's office. It felt good to know that they had done their jobs and taken a dangerous entity off the street. Andy O'Shea surveyed the station house floor, breathing in deep of the multitude of smells and odours he had come to know over the years. This was his second home. He hated like hell to have to leave it, but the time had finally come to move on.

"Either of you up for a coffee or something?"

"Nah, I'm good, thanks."

"Me too."

O'Shea nodded. "Okay."

"Hey O'Shea! We're goin' to grab a beer at Haggerty's after shift. Wanna come?"

"I'll think about it!" O'Shea called back.

"Party starts at eleven thirty."

"I'll see what I can do. All depends on what the two ladies of the house say."

The detectives chuckled and went back to work.

"Yokas, it's been good workin' with you. I've missed havin' a partner."

"Yeah, it was fun. We'll have to do it again sometime."

"Yeah."

Yokas stuck out her hand. "Thanks for watching my back out there."

"Thanks for watchin' mine. It ain't easy to keep up out there, but you're right on top of things." Andy shook the proffered hand, his grip firm. "Keep up the good work. You're top-notch."

"Thanks."

"Boscorelli, been an interesting experience workin' with you too. You remind me of how I used to be when I was younger. You'd do well to cut people more slack, but you've got potential. Keep your eyes open and don't stop learning. That goes for both of you. It stops bein' fun when you stop learning."

"You bet, thanks."

"So you're really gonna retire?"

"Aye. The City belongs to you guys now. The old guard is too few these days to do The Job the way it should be done."

"You'll be missed."

O'Shea shook his head. "Not as much as some others. I'll see you around."

"Good luck, Andy."

Boscorelli turned to Yokas. "You feel like being Five-Five David again?"

She grinned. "Yeah, sounds good. First thing tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

O'Shea fitted his hat onto his head and straightened his dark blue clip-on tie. The younger officers didn't notice him walk away. Sergeant Christopher only nodded at him as the Irishman crossed the bustling station house floor. He paused before opening the house doors. Brilliant sunlight reflected off windshields and mirrors of the cruisers parked along the curb. He let out a long breath, crossed himself quickly, and pushed open the glass door. Passing from dark to light, once again. Only this time, he was ending his last tour.

The light was back at the end of the tunnel.

* * *

Faith, Bosco, Davis, and Sully stood outside the apartment building that O'Shea lived in, gazing up at the rows of windows and wondering which one belonged to their fellow officer. They had followed the Irishman from the station house, but had not been able to catch up to him before he entered the building.

"Should we go in?"

"And say what?"

Davis shrugged. "I don't know. Something."

"What can we possibly say to him that will make this any easier for him?" Sully asked his partner. "Leaving The Job is tough for a guy who's spent most of his life doing it."

"Well we can't just leave him by himself."

The statement hung over the quartet like a smothering blanket. They all knew that leaving O'Shea alone was a bad idea, but each of them was at a loss as to how to approach him.

"We oughta at least see if he's okay."

"And how would we do that? The front door's got an automatic lock on it. We'd need to get buzzed in by somebody." Bosco said.

"So what's the harm in buzzing his apartment?"

No one offered a response. Bosco shifted from foot to foot.

"I want a drink. The rest of the shift is down at Haggerty's."

"Shut up, Bosco."

"What? We could all use a couple of beers. It's been a helluva week."

Faith spitted him with an annoyed glare. "If you want to go so badly, be my guest. I'm not leaving until Andy comes out."

"He won't do that until somebody goes to get him." Bosco countered.

"Wait, what's that?" Davis tilted his head to the side, listening intently. The two arguing partners fell silent to listen as well. Strange, vibrating notes wafted down from the roof of the apartment building. A warbling echo that was unmistakable.

"Bagpipes." Sully whispered. "He's playing Taps."

The group stared up at the rooftop, letting the heart-piercing chords float down to them. All along the street, people paused to look up toward the source of the haunting music. Activity and time itself, it seemed, was suspended for a handful of seconds. A last, lingering high note echoed through the alleys and between buildings long after the bagpiper on the roof finished playing. Somebody down the street coughed, and the spell was broken.

"I think we should go up now."

"No. Let's leave him. I think he'll be all right."

"Are you sure?"

Sully nodded. "Yeah. He's got his kids with him. He'll be okay now. They won't let him feel alone." The foursome walked away down the sidewalk, leaving behind the moment of wonder they had shared as the bagpipes played.

"Play another, Daddy."

"Who for?"

"Uncle Luke."

He drew in a deep breath and began to play. For Uncle Luke it was. Heather and Sarah sat quietly on their little folding chairs as he played. He felt like he was watching an era draw to a close as he watched the four cops disappear around a corner down on the street. That they had been there meant a lot. He played the pipes for them, for the precinct, and for all the officers who had fallen. His eyes misted as he played for every officer in every city across the country.

_God bless the Thin Blue Line._

_Finis!

* * *

_

10-47 – Request Medical Examiner (Maine State Police)


	25. Epilogue

The detectives from the task force discuss the case before sending it to the D.A. (A few days after everything settles down.)

* * *

"So we got Kimball and Seavey for sure." 

"Yup. Kimball copped to shooting Malloy and says that Seavey did Staples and Benny. It was a tag-team operation."

Asheby shook his head. "Interesting way of handling business."

"Very interesting." His partner agreed. "A.D.A. says they're both lookin' at Murder One for certain. Two counts for Seavey and one for Kimball, in addition to the assaulting an officer and all the other minor stuff tacked on to it."

"Twenty-five to life, possibility of parole after fifteen years served. Sounds very good to me," Asheby said, sitting back in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head.

"You and me both."

"I'm glad it's over. Sittin' out there in a van with that Anti-Crime sergeant and her attitude was getting to be a real headache." Ramirez commented, joining the group.

Duncan shook his head. "Yeah, that's true. You gotta admit though, she's a damn fine piece of attitude."

The Narcotics officer laughed and replied, "For sure. What would it take to get that attitude alone and tamed?"

"A helluva lot more than you can offer."

The men gathered around the detectives' desks immediately fell silent and shifted uncomfortably under Cruz's irritated glare. She tapped the index finger of her right hand against the butt of her gun as she stood in the narrow hallway and let the awkward silence stretch on.

"It's good to see the cream of three units using their time so well. I'll have to mention it to Lieutenant Marsh when I see him later."

"Son-of-a-bitch!" Ramirez muttered, when Cruz had walked away. "That _is_ a damn fine piece of attitude!"

"I heard that, Ramirez!"

A quiet chuckle from the other detectives accompanied Ramirez's blush. Jenkins, one of the other Anti-Crime officers, slapped the Narcotics officer's shoulder. "Don't sweat it, man. You get used to working with her after awhile."

"No kidding!"

"Anybody know what's happened to that cop who took out Morris? I haven't seen him around all that much lately." Lowell asked.

"Terminal leave, as of the day after he shot Morris for us." Asheby answered.

"The official word on O'Shea is that he _is_ retiring from service. Twenty-five years is a long time for anybody to spend on the beat. If anybody runs into him out on the street, be sure to wish him well. He'll be missed around here." Brown from Anti-Crime added.

"Huh! Retiring! I guess the old geezer can't take getting knocked around anymore."

Duncan from Anti-Crime smacked Lowell in the back of the head with a newspaper he had quickly rolled up. "Shut up. What do you know about how much Andy O'Shea can take? He's been on the beat a helluva lot longer than any of us have, and he's taken more than his fair share of lumps out there. Leave the guy alone."

"What the hell's your problem?"

"I went through the Academy with him. He was one of the best we had on the street. I don't like hearing guys of his calibre get talked crap about by anybody who doesn't know squat."

"Aww, is the big bad Anti-Crime guy stickin' up for an old chum? How sweet," Johnson sneered playfully, artfully defusing the situation before it escalated. Duncan took a swing at him with the newspaper amid chuckles from the others.

"Back to business, gentlemen, to business," Wickes said. "I need your signatures on this release paper so I can finish the report."

Eachdetective stepped over to the desk to scribble his name on the last page.

"It's an airtight case we got, for once. They've rolled to what they done, and we got the evidence to prove it. It's like Christmas all over again." Johnson from Narcotics remarked, passing the pen back to Wickes.

"I'm curious about one thing, though. The whole time we were chasing down Morris, where was Mikey Boscorelli?"

Wickes shrugged, signing the cover letter of the final detective report. "Beats me. Maybe he got smart and headed someplace quieter."

"You think? There's a boatload of opportunity around town for a sharp young dealer. It makes more sense to me that he would keep a low profile until this mess went away. With the power vacuum that's been created with Morris' abrupt departure from the business, there's more than ample room for underlings to claw their way up the ladder."

"That much I doubt," Lowell from Narcotics said. "Latest rumour on the street suggests that there's a new boss already moved into Morris' place. The way the story goes, Morris knew he was gonna get jumped by his own people and figured letting the cops take him out would be a lot easier."

Asheby snorted. "And who's this new boss, then?"

"I don't know for sure. Mann, something, I think. It's written down somewhere." Lowell replied with a careless shrug. "What's it matter? We smacked the Dolphin ring pretty hard. I'd be surprised if they didn't just dissolve and go away like all the other drug rings do."

"We'll have to wait and see, I guess." Wickes tucked the completed report into a folder and set it aside. "I'm headin' over to Haggerty's, who's coming with me?"

The other detectives stood up with him. It was unanimous, as he had figured it would be. Wickes buttoned up his shirt and tightened his tie. Going out required a certain level of decorum.

Asheby was the last one out of the squad room and he took a final look at the closely-bunched desks that had been his unofficial home for the past two weeks.

"Until the next one." He said to the now-empty room, and turned off the lights.


End file.
